CollarRedux Season 2
by oflymonddreams
Summary: In an AU Princeton Plains, the head of Diagnostics wears a collar... and kindly Doctor Wilson is very, very interested in Greg, the hospital's expensive asset. Now complete for 2nd season.
1. Acceptance

_This is a crack!AU, now in it's second season. It's an alternative-universe PPTH/America, where people are slaves, and Gregory House is one of them. You can read the first season in CollarRedux. Like the first season, this is planned to continue, one chapter per episode, till we reach the season finale... in a twisted kind of way._

**2.01 Acceptance**

Stacy was meeting with Doctor Cuddy. They were still at the stage at which both of them had invited the other to use first names, but Stacy at least was still saying "Lisa" but thinking "Doctor Cuddy".

Cuddy's PA was hovering. "Excuse me? Doctor Nolo is here."

"He doesn't have an appointment."

"He wants to talk with you about the state prison consult."

Cuddy glanced down her calendar. "Ask him to make an appointment for some time this afternoon."

"He said you'd say that," the PA said. "But he wants to see you before he goes to the prison."

"Prison?" Stacy asked.

"There's a guy on death row, has something wrong with his heart," Cuddy said. "The prison asked for a consult, I'm sending them a cardiologist."

The door opened and Doctor Nolo came in. Stacy remembered him, though not by name; the doctor who used to get drunk at every Christmas party and throw up. Once he vomited on House. By the look around his eyes, he wasn't just drinking at Christmas parties any more.

"I don't want to go to the prison," Nolo announced. "Also, I don't see what the point is. He's on Death Row."

"New Jersey hasn't executed anyone since 1976," Cuddy said. "The feds asked for a consult. Just go."

Nolo literally swayed, standing there. "We both know," he said with dignity, "that they asked PPTH for a consult because they want the guy who can diagnose anyone."

"I am not sending a very valuable asset to the state prison," Cuddy said. "Unless they can send the prisoner _here_, we're not obliged to do more than respond to the consult. I am responding to the consult: I'm sending you. Please do your best for them. Thank you, Doctor Nolo."

Stacy waited till the door had closed behind Nolo before she said "Should you be sending a drunk doctor to a professional consult?"

"He has tenure," Cuddy said, answering the question Stacy hadn't asked. "And from the look of him, he had a shot to brace himself before he came into my office. It's a two hour drive, and they said they'd send a car. He'll have sobered up by the time he gets there." She paused. "He is still good with students, he's sober when he's seeing patients, and he is due to retire in eighteen months."

"You're not going to send House?"

"Part of our agreement was that we weren't going to talk about Diagnostics," Cuddy reminded her.

Stacy nodded. He came back into her mind sometimes, the sight of him, leaning up against a wall, sitting across the table in the staff canteen, smiling. But she had arranged not to see him, and so far, she hadn't.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The phone rang: Cameron answered it. Chase went on doing the crossword. She looked up, startled. "It's House."

"What does he want?" Foreman asked.

Chase stood up. "He wants us down in the lobby, now," he said, just for the pleasure of saying it a second ahead of Cameron, and annoying Foreman.

But Foreman just nodded, looking calm and uninterested. "Makes sense," he said, not moving. He was working at his laptop. "He's about to leave the clinic, and for some reason he wants an escort."

Cameron was already at the door. "He said all three of us," she said.

"Right now I don't care why he wants an escort," Foreman said. He sounded calmly smug. "Either one of you will do, anyway."

"Thanks," Chase said, a bit amused. He guessed Foreman was going to call one of his tame ER nurses as soon as they were out of earshot. He also guessed that House had managed to annoy Foreman once too often by preferring him for an escort when he wanted to go somewhere safely: Foreman did look more like he could beat someone up.

House was standing just inside the door of the clinic. Chase walked up to him, stopped three feet away, and stuck his hands in his lab coat pockets. "You rang?"

House glanced over his shoulder. "I'm going to Mercer State Prison," he said.

Chase felt as if someone had punched him, then suddenly thought, House was screwing with him, and then glanced over his own shoulder, following House's gaze, and saw a corrections officer, in uniform, by the main entrance. Outside, parked in the quick drop-off zone, there was a white prison van.

"Relax," House said. "I was asked for a consult. They want to know why a patient's heart started beating so fast it pumped air instead of blood. Doctor Cuddy knows I'm going. That's why they sent the van. Walk me over to the corrections officer and tell the guy I don't need to go out in cuffs."

Cameron was looking very worried. House glanced at her. "Go do your clinic hours."

"I already did mine for this week."

"Then go do two of mine." House set off towards to the front door. Chase followed.

The van driver had been joined by a guard. They were both looking at House in the same way PPTH security did: assessing how much trouble a tall slave with a cane could give them. The guard spoke to Chase, though: "You got the transfer papers?"

"He's not going out of here permanently," Chase said. "It's just a consult."

House produced a piece of paper, a computer-generated form signed at the bottom, and handed it to the guard. He was standing, Chase realised, legs slightly apart, head bowed, shoulders slumped: he looked submissive and harmless.

"He can't have the cane," the guard said, and took it out of House's hand. He held it out to Chase, who took it after a moment.

"He needs it to walk."

The guard shrugged. "We'll put him in a wheelchair when we get there, I'll call ahead." He produced a set of shackles. "We'll get him back here before the end of the day."

"You don't need those," Chase said. "I've got his cane, he can't _run_. You're taking him as a doctor, not a prisoner."

House didn't move. He didn't say anything and he didn't move his hands into position to be shackled.

The guard sighed. "He's now in our custody, Doctor. Rules are rules."

Cuddy said sharply from right behind them both "What is going on?"

"Doctor Cuddy," Chase said. "This are the men from Mercer State Prison to pick up... Greg."

"What?" Cuddy said, very sharply indeed. Chase had a sudden sinking feeling that something had gone wrong. House was standing very still. His hands, by his sides, were trembling.

The guard handed her the form. She took it, looked at it frowning, and then focussed on the field at the end. "I didn't sign this. Who gave it to you?"

"That guy - " the guard pointed, apparently not quite sure what to call House.

"I never gave permission for the Diagnostics slave to leave the hospital," Cuddy said. One of the security guards was already walking over towards her. "Put Greg in my office." She handed the form to her PA. "Find out what you can about this, and page Doctor Nolo to my office at his earliest convenience."

"And what am I supposed to tell my boss?" the guard said. "No offense, Doctor Cuddy, but whatever the administrative mixups here, he sent us over to collect the guy - "

"Doctor Chase," Cuddy said.

Chase wished he'd thought to assume he was supposed to go with Greg - the security guards had taken him by the elbows and were walking him over to Cuddy's office.

"You can go to the prison and take a look at the prisoner. Doctor Chase is our most senior Diagnostics fellow," she added to the guard. "He'll carry out an examination and report back."

"Okay," Chase said. On a moment's thought, it actually looked preferable to be out of the hospital for the next three hours." He looked at the guard. "Okay with you if I drive myself over?"

"Prefer it," the guard said. "Unless you want to ride in back."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

House had not returned from clinic duty. Chase and Cameron hadn't come back either. None of the ER nurses knew of an interesting case. Foreman was getting his notes on three previous cases into order for articles he planned to write. The phone rang.

"Foreman," Chase said. "I'm in Mercer State Prison, Capital Sentences unit."

"My sympathies," Foreman said. "Where's House?"

"He's not back?" There was a pause. "We have a patient. Guy on death row. He needs to be intubated and put on a respirator. He's hypoxic. He's got fluid in his lungs, breathing rate of 50, blue fingernails, blue lips... But the prison infirmary doesn't have a respirator."

"So he's going to die," Foreman said. "Oh wait, he's on Death Row. He's going to die." He stopped. The background sound was on an outside line. Foreman himself might have set up an elaborate practical joke like this, but he could not see Chase being energetic enough to do it. "Are you actually in the state prison?"

"Yes," Chase said. "They wanted a diagnostician. Actually they wanted House, but they got me."

Foreman's first, ridiculous impulse was jealousy. He realised it was ridiculous even as he felt it. This wasn't a job he would have wanted, so why should he care that Chase had landed it? "How did that happen?"

"I was standing there." Chase sounded hesitant. "Look, House got taken off - he's really not back? It was hours ago."

"What happened?"

"I don't know," Chase said. "But this guy needs to be on a respirator, and it would be easier to run the tests if he was in the ward on our floor. Can you go ask Cuddy if we can bring him in? - And when you do, can you ask Cuddy where House is?"

"Where's Cameron?"

"She's not back either? She was doing clinic time."

Cuddy was in a private interview with someone, the PA said, and not to be disturbed. Foreman sat down to wait.

After half an hour, he called Chase.

"How's death row guy?"

"Still dying," Chase said. "I checked out his cell. They had him locked in the stationery closet. Too violent for the infirmary. Could a guy on death row get heroin?"

"Are you kidding me?" Foreman asked.

"Right," Chase said. "Heroin addiction could cause the tachycardia, which would cause the pulmonary edema. They're taking hair, blood, and urine samples now."

"What if he's not on heroin," Foreman said.

"Well, I'm sure they'll test for everything - "

"I mean, what if he's on something that was sold to him as a narcotic, that isn't? Like selling oregano for hash." Which Foreman had actually done, in juvie, not that he was about to admit it to Chase.

"Well, in that case, we're screwed," Chase said. "Could be anything."

"_We're_ screwed?"

"He's screwed either way, probably," Chase said. "Longer you leave it, the less chance he'll survive the trip. But we're screwed because if House doesn't figure out what was killing this guy before he dies, he's going to obsess about it for years."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"I didn't send Greg," Nolo kept saying. He was even more drunk now than he had been. "I didn't want to go, and I kept saying that, and I thought I would try to sober up, but I couldn't..."

He trailed off. Cuddy watched him. Nolo had been part of PPTH before she became the Dean: he was in his early sixties, and he looked like a very old, tired man.

"Please," he said finally. "Give me a second chance. I really did try to sober up. I had a cup of coffee. It didn't help."

"You're drunk now," Cuddy pointed out neutrally.

"I know." Nolo shook his head. "I'm sorry. I tried. I didn't want to go but I didn't send Greg. Please." He swallowed. "Kevin - our youngest - he's still only sixteen. My wife teaches high school - she - we can't manage on just her salary. Mary and Andrew are in college - "

Cuddy dropped her eyes. She moved her pen from one hand to the other. She looked up. "He was seventeen last week," she pointed out, still gently, neutrally. She had looked up his family before she asked to see him. Minor children were at risk of involuntary attachment to pay their parent's debts.

Nolo looked down. He looked defeated.

"Will you check yourself into rehab?" Cuddy asked.

"Yes," Nolo said, with dawning hope.

"You are now, officially, on your final warning," Cuddy said. "I'll put you on unpaid leave from today. I'll let your wife know where you are. When you leave my office, go directly to rehab. I'll sort out your insurance."

Nolo got up. "I'm going," he said. "Thank you."

Cuddy braced herself, and called Nolo's wife. The call took five minutes: most of it split between embarrassing anger and even more embarrassing gratitude.

Then she made another phone call. By this time, Greg would be fastened up against the whipping post. It always took hospital security some time to get him into position, because of the standing orders that he wasn't to be harmed or damaged. She had considered this quite carefully. There was no proof that Greg had been the one to log in under her hospital ID and generate the printed order that allowed him to be taken to the prison. Nolo really had been very drunk. It was possible he'd done it. It was also possible that someone else had done it for a joke. The one thing that was certain was that Greg had made no effort to bring the situation to anyone's attention - and he should have: he knew he wasn't allowed out of the hospital to see patients. In fact, he'd done his best to ensure that no one would stop him, by summoning his fellows. And there had been a situation, nearly a month ago, where Greg had got away without a whipping, on condition of good behavior for a month.

"Ten lashes," Cuddy said. "Tell him this is because he lied to Mr and Mrs Park." She spelled out their names. "He should spend tonight in the recovery ward. No painkillers. No clinic shift tomorrow morning. He can return to his usual painkiller and clinic shift for 8pm tomorrow evening, if his recovery's normal."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The four-time murderer on death row had died, Chase said, in a stationery closet, a few hours after Chase's arrival. Permission had not been obtained for a respirator. Nor for an autopsy.

"If we'd cured him, he'd have gone back to Death Row," Cameron said.

"I know," Chase said.

Foreman said nothing. He was still working on his laptop.

The door opened, and House pushed his way in. He was walking clumsily, without his cane: Chase had brought the cane up from the lobby, and propped it up against the Eames chair in House's room. He looked at them. "Tachycardia, pulmonary edema, likely suspects?" he said.

Cameron was thrown. Even Foreman looked up from his laptop.

Chase said, "Dead. About six hours after I got there yesterday."

House stood still. His jaw worked. "What did the autopsy show?"

"Immediate family's a younger brother. He wouldn't give permission for an autopsy." Chase glanced at his watch. "The body's probably already been cremated."

House nodded. "Okay," he said.

"I'm sorry - " Chase said.

"Yeah, yeah." House's voice was a grey tired lurch. He started moving towards his room. "Go do whatever it is you guys do. Find me another case tomorrow."

"I found one," Cameron said.

"Tomorrow," House said. He didn't stop. A minute after he entered his room, he came out again, holding his cane in one hand, the file Cameron had left where he couldn't miss it in the other. He still sounded impossibly tired. "Somebody left this on my bunk. Clever - forces me to either deal with the file or never lie down again."

"Cindy Kramer," Cameron said. "I told her you'd see her."

"You shouldn't have told her that," House said. "She's got metastatic squamous cell lung cancer, six months, tops."

Cameron shook her head. It could be pneumonia. It could be sarcoidosis. What it couldn't be was a diagnosis that meant a woman without husband, parents, sisters, brothers, or close friends, was going to die. "Have you even looked at the x-ray?"

"No, just guessing," House said. He dropped the file on the table. Cameron immediately picked it up and flipped it open to the x-ray. She had been sure House would pull a new diagnosis out of it.

"A spot on a x-ray doesn't necessarily mean that she's terminal."

House looked at her. His eyes were cold, nearly colorless, and held more contempt than Cameron wanted to receive. "She already has swollen hilar lymph nodes on the other lung. She's dying."

"Could we at least brainstorm for other ideas?" Cameron said.

"I've got to learn not to beat around the bush. By dying, I mean no matter what we do. Very, very soon she is going to be dead. Is it still too subtle? Now go tell Cindy whatever-her-name-is that she's dying."

"You logged on to the hospital mainframe to get assigned to Death Row guy, but you won't even _see_ Cindy?"

"_She's dying!_" House said. His voice, suddenly raised, was more shocking than anything else. He stood still, his hands locked on to his cane, staring at her. "Okay, fine. You guys brainstorm. Knock yourselves out." He turned round and walked away. There were straight red lines making a pattern across the back of his t-shirt. It was a long moment before Cameron realised, her mouth filling with cold liquid, that the marks were lines of blood.

When Cameron was aware again, she found that Chase and Foreman had picked up and left. The door into House's room was firmly closed. She was alone with Cindy Kramer's file.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

A few minutes before six, wilson checked his e-mail for the last time, and walked down to the Diagnostics ward. Cameron was sitting on the bed, talking to the patient; a young woman. They were both laughing.

Wilson opened the door. "Doctor Cameron? Could I borrow you for a consult?"

Once they were both outside in the hall, Wilson closed the door. "Bittersweet thing about being head of the oncology department, I get CC'ed on all the biopsy results."

"Yeah, I know." Cameron sounded sad. She met Wilson's eyes. She really was very lovely. "She's terminal."

"Yeah," Wilson said. "So I take it you were in there informing her?"

"Well, I..." Cameron looked away. "I hadn't exactly gotten around to that, but I was just - "

"Doing what? Making friends?" Wilson made his voice calmly authoritative.

"Cindy's divorced," Cameron said. She met his eyes again. She didn't sound guilty, but there was a note of self-justification in her voice. "She doesn't have any kids, no siblings, both her parents are gone - "

"It's not your job to be her friend," Wilson said, keeping his voice into the authoritative range. He had had to say this to other oncology fellows and nurses, faced with the reality of a terminal cancer diagnosis, a likable patient. There was a little girl called Andie... "Do you understand?" Wilson said. "And it's not worth it. She feels better her few final days, and you're not the same, maybe for years."

"You don t think it s worth it," Cameron said.

"I _know_ it's not worth it," Wilson told her.

"My husband w - " Cameron wasn't married. Wilson saw her trip to a halt, turn her head to look at Cindy, and turn back to meet Wilson's eyes. This time, there was something in her voice beyond what Wilson had expected. "I met him just after he was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. If I hadn't married him, he was alone."

So that was what had happened to Cameron. Wilson nodded, without changing his expression. She wouldn't be the same, maybe for years.

Camerion's voice cracked a little. "When a good person dies, there should be an impact on the world. Somebody should notice. Somebody should be upset." She went back inside. This time, Wilson thought, she would tell Cindy. And she was certainly going to be distracted from Greg.

Wilson went back down the hall to the Diagnostics conference room. He had Greg's prescription of Oxycontin in his pocket, and permission to give it early. He had two hours ahead of him before Greg was due in the clinic. He was getting that pleasant twinge in his gut when he thought of Greg showering and changing into his clean clinic clothing, the marks of yesterday's whipping still clear on his back. Wilson smiled to himself. He wondered when he would decide to let Greg have the Oxycontin.

_tbc_

_Thanks for joining me for Season Two of CollarRedux! RAL: Reviews Are Love!  
_


	2. Autopsy

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". Now in its second season. Assuming I can keep it up, there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode, and right now I have plans on how to continue this at least till the third season._

**2.02 Autopsy**

Wilson was used to advising doctors and nurses in oncology, especially paediatric oncology, not to get too involved with the patients. Most of their patients were going to die: and every child who died would be heartbreaking, if you let it be.

Andie ought to be no different. But she was. She was nine. She might not see her tenth birthday. She would never see her eleventh birthday. She was a lovely child - a golden laugh, sunshine in the paediatrics ward.

And she was hallucinating. She had alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma, and hallucinations ought to have meant it had spread to the brain, giving her a week to live, but tests had shown no signs of rhabdo in the brain.

Any head of department at PPTH had the power to hand a case to Diagnostics. It was, Wilson had been aware for years before this, damned exasperating for the senior consultants that no matter what force was applied, they could not _make_ "Doctor House" see a patient, or send his fellows to view a patient: first step always had to be to convince the Diagnostics slave that the case was genuinely interesting.

There were two or three routes to Diagnostic attention. One of them was to have Cuddy make "Doctor House" look at the file: Wilson had been through that route several times before he began to take a personal interest in Greg. One of them was to corner Greg and physically hand him the file. One was to get Foreman interested. (Cameron's interest seemed to be easier to pique, but Wilson had formed the opinion that it was just she was a softer touch than either Foreman or Chase: and Chase preferred not to pass cases to "Doctor House" at all.)

Wilson went down to the pediatric ward and picked up Andie's file. Greg would be doing his morning clinic hours at the moment.

...or should have been: when Wilson went into the Diagnostics conference room, Greg was sitting at the table, ignoring Chase, the only other fellow there, his shoulders hunched up and his eyes on the window. It was a beautiful day outside, and the window was closed. In the cubbyhole where Greg worked and slept, Wilson could see two workmen at the glassed entrance to the balcony. As Wilson walked in, Greg sneezed.

Greg got the regular anti-flu shots and was more careful than most in avoiding cold germs. If he had a cold, he would most likely be on the slave ward, to avoid infecting other staff. There was a high pollen count outdoors, and Greg didn't look as if he were running a fever.

"Hay fever?" Wilson asked. He put the file down on the table in front of Greg. "Benadryl might help."

"Cuddy already dosed me with 1000 milligrams and took me off clinic duty till they get the air purifiers fixed," Greg said. He glanced down at the file, and his face went through a contortion as if he were about to sneeze and didn't.

"Good, you'll have time for this," Wilson said, cheerfully. Greg hated doing clinic duty. "I've got a nine year old with cancer. Alveolar Rhabdomyosarcoma. Terminal kid trumps your stuffy nose. Also, she's hallucinating."

Greg picked up the file and leafed through it.

Wilson said, "There is no cancer in her brain. Pristine CT scan, blood tests, protein markers all negative."

Greg was looking at Andie and her mother's account of the hallucinatory episode. "She s making it all up because she doesn't want to get in trouble for breaking a mirror. Unfortunately we can t test for that so..." He glanced up at Wilson, looked out of the window again, and said "Chase, get a tox screen and MRI." Chase scrambled to his feet and left.

"I'll get you an hour in the steam room," Wilson offered.

Greg shrugged. His mouth twisted in a brief, cynical smile. "I'm sure you will," he said evenly. He picked up his pager. "I have to get Foreman and Cameron back in for the DDX: you want to sit in? Bring coffee and doughnuts?"

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson booked an hour in the steam room from six. He collected a jar of mentholated vapor rub from the free samples box, and a couple of towels from the laundry before collecting Greg from Diagnostics. Greg's nose was still stuffy and he was clearly struggling to breathe.

"How long does this usually last?" Wilson had stripped down and put his clothes in the locker. Greg was still standing by the door, looking awkward. Wilson wrapped one towel around his own waist and took hold of Greg's wrist, leading him towards the locker. "You can't go in the steam room in your clothes."

Greg shrugged and began to take his clothes off. He was still, Wilson noted with mild amusement, trying to conceal his scar from Wilson. "How long?" Greg repeated. "How long do you usually take?" He wrapped the towel round himself and left his clothes in a heap on the bench.

"Put them in the locker," Wilson said.

"What's the point?" Greg asked. "Who's going to steal them?"

"Just tidy them into the locker." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "You do know when I said _steam room_ I just meant an hour getting your sinuses cleaned out?"

Greg gave Wilson a wary look, but made no other response. Untidily, he piled his jeans and t-shirt and sneakers into the locker on top of Wilson's things: his cane wouldn't fit, and he hid it under the bench.

"Did you hear me?" Wilson asked.

"I heard you," Greg said. "This room has great acoustics."

"I'd probably get sacked if I had sex in the steam room," Wilson said.

"No, you wouldn't," Greg said flatly. He opened the door and went in, moving awkwardly without his cane. He sat down on one of the benches, folded up. "'Why, Greg,'" he said in a voice that was a bad imitation of Wilson's, "'how _could_ you know something like that?'"

Wilson sat down on the facing bench. "Talk to me about the case." He handed Greg the jar of vapor rub. "See if this helps." He liked the look of the dark metal collar against Greg's pale neck: it had a clean, framing effect. The tag he'd bought was going to look good against the collar and Greg's skin.

Greg's hands were struggling with the jar. His eyes were fixed on Wilson's face. "If only she'd been molested then we'd have something to go on."

"What?" Wilson was startled. "Why would you think she'd been molested?"

"No forced entry, Cameron checked," Greg said. "She wasn't, but she manipulated Chase into giving her a kiss just like an incest victim working the angles. Neurosyphilis would have explained the hallucinations, but she's clean."

"Wait, Chase kissed her?" Wilson was startled and horrified.

"One kiss. He won't do it again."

Greg was still struggling with the jar. Wilson clicked his fingers and took it out of Greg's hands. He was surprised at Chase, but he had witnessed Andie's ability to convince the adults around the oncology ward to give her what she wanted. "One hallucination; maybe it was just bad pork, maybe there s nothing..."

"She's not fine. Her sat percentage dropped another point."

"Which could suggest a tumor in her lung," Wilson suggested.

"Lung wouldn t explain the hallucination. CT scan showed both lungs were clean, which means there's a tumor in her heart."

"Not a chance," Wilson said, and got the jar open. He handed it back to Greg. "We've got an MRI and an echo of her heart, there's nothing there."

"Give me one other explanation for low oxygen saturation," Greg said. He put the jar down beside him, absently.

"I can't. There's only one condition that simultaneously affects the heart and the brain but she..."

"Perfect," Greg interrupted, "let's go with that."

Wilson shook his head. "Tuberous Sclerosis in a kid that also has Alveolar Rhabdomyosarcoma. Two different unrelated cancers at the same time is a statistical no no."

"What's the rate of cancer in the general population?" Greg asked.

Wilson shook his head. He wanted Greg to stop right there.

"One in ten thousand..."

"Don't," Wilson cut over him, sharply. "Don't start with the numbers."

Greg fell silent. He was staring across the room, rubbing at his ruined thigh under the towel, almost absently. He looked down, swiftly up at Wilson, and back down again. Still with downcast eyes, he picked up the jar of vapor rub and dabbed a bit on under his nose before screwing the lid on and putting it down again. His hands were trembling. He huddled his arms around himself, hunched his shoulders, and sat with his head bent. Waiting.

Wilson sat and stared at the hunched man. When he'd first started talking to Greg he'd have labeled this behavior sulky. Now he saw it as fear.

Greg was afraid of what Wilson would decide to do to him. Wilson cleared his throat. "Okay." He repeated it, more loudly, and finally said "Okay. One in ten thousand. Your point being?"

Greg didn't look up. He folded his hands together in front of himself and said to his hands, "The way I figure it one in ten thousand of_ them_ should have another cancer." He swallowed. "It happens," he repeated, hopelessly.

"You think she's got another tumor, so you're going to... cut her open?"

"Exploratory surgery," Greg said.

There was a pause. Greg still didn't look up. It made Wilson angrier. "You're just going to grope around inside an immuno-compromised nine year old," Wilson said slowly, grimly. "She could die on the table."

"I know it's somewhere near the heart," Greg said.

Wilson stared at Greg's bent head. "...you've got to do better than that," he said. "You hear me? You've _got_ to."

"Okay," Greg muttered. He didn't lift his head. He was silent, his hands playing with the jar.

"If this place was going to freak you out so much, why'd you agree to come in here?" Wilson asked, just a bit exasperated.

Greg lifted his head and looked Wilson, briefly, in the eyes. "It's not just the place," he said. He smiled, a brief humorless flash of teeth. "It's you."

"Either way, why did you agree? I didn't have to put you on a leash and drag you here."

Greg shrugged. "You might have." He glanced around the room, opened the jar again, and seemed to realize he still had a smear of the gel under his nose. "I need to clear my sinuses. Cuddy won't let me work in the clinic like this."

"Why do you care?" After a moment, Wilson realized. "Because sick leave time doesn't count against your clinic hours." Neat system: so long as Greg could look forward, occasionally, to stretches when he was only working four hours in the clinic each day, he'd keep plugging on morning and evening. "You find ways of getting out of working your clinic hours anyway."

"Do you know the etymological history of the word 'monomania?'" Greg asked.

"No. Is it relevant?"

Greg shrugged, again. "Not to you."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson was watching Andie comfort her mom about the approaching heart surgery. It should be the other way round; but he could tell from the body language that Andie was giving her mom a pep talk. "Brave kid," he said to Greg, and only then wondered what Greg was doing here on the pediatric oncology ward.

"Sure," Greg said. "Brave. She's a wonder."

"What's your problem?" Wilson asked. He had looked up _monomania _and found it was a coined word originally published in _Cartwright Directory of Freedom Illnesses_: a 19th-century "illness" in slaves obsessed with escape. Of course there was really nowhere for a slave to escape to, in the 21st century, even assuming a slave like Greg could get away. Maybe the heavy clinic workload was _good_ for Greg, if the absence got him this twitchy.

"These cancer kids," Greg said. "You can't put them all on a pedestal. It's basic statistics some of them have to be whiny little fraidy cats."

Wilson took hold of Greg's arm and marched him towards to the exit. "You're unbelievable."

"If there's not one yellow-belly in the group then being brave doesn't have any meaning."

Wilson stopped them by the door. The security guard turned and glanced at them. Wilson smiled, giving him a casual wave. He said to Greg, "Andie handles an impossible situation with grace. That's not to be admired?"

Greg frowned. "You see grace because you want to see grace."

"You _don't_ see grace because you won't go anywhere near her." And Wilson had no intention of _letting_ Greg anywhere near her.

The guard came over. Wilson saw him out of the corner of his eye.

"Idolizing is pathological with you people," Greg said. "You see things to admire where there's nothing - "

"Is he giving you any trouble?" the guard said. "Saw Greg come in, thought he had a patient here, that little girl - "

Greg froze. Wilson smiled. He turned Greg towards the exit with a pat on his arm. "He had an appointment here," he said. "Now he's going back up to Diagnostics. He doesn't need an escort."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The surgery found the tumor: in her lung extending into her heart, not visible on the MRI because it was growing along the heart wall. Doctor Murphy did an explant to cut out the tumor and replace the damaged heart muscle with bovine patches. The surgery went surprisingly well: the tumor had not metastasized and there was enough heart muscle left for Andie to get by on. The only problem was a new symptom: she bled out of her eye during surgery.

"If the tumor's benign," Wilson said - he had invited himself into the DDX following the surgery - "that means it didn't cause her hallucinations."

Greg was standing by the whiteboard, playing with his marker pen. He eyed Wilson uneasily, then switched his attention to the Diagnostics fellows. "That s why I'm mentioning it."

"So the tumor is a coincidence," Wilson said.

"This is bad," Greg said, "you're starting to state the obvious."

Wilson saw Chase grin out of the corner of his eye: he glanced over and saw Chase look at him, then at Greg.

"No, Doctor House," Wilson said, emphatically, grimly formal, "you said it would be there, it was there. It can't be a coincidence."

"Thank you, Doctor Wilson," Greg said. "Differential diagnosis, people. A nine year old with terminal cancer gets an unrelated benign tumor growing in her heart. Why?"

"It's benign?" Cameron sounded really startled. "That's impossible."

Greg pointed with his marker pen. "Talk to Wilson."

"And the retinal bleed?" Wilsn asked the air. "Another coincidence?"

Chase was all business now. "A clot could create pressure behind the eye, cause the bleed."

"A clot could explain the eye," Wilson agreed, "but doesn't explain the hallucinations."

"A clot could cause mini seizures," Foreman said.

"Great," Wilson retorted, "another thing that's not causing the hallucinations."

"Post seizure psychosis" Foreman explained, heavily. "The brain sort of corrects itself after the seizure by hallucinating."

"Then the clot could explain the eye and the hallucinations," Wilson said, "but what about the tumor?" He had seen it in surgery: "Tumors the size of an octopus wrapped around a little girl's heart are not just a coincidence."

"She's not healthy," Cameron said. "She's _never_ been healthy."

"What's the theory here?" Wilson demanded. "This girl's body's a lemon? Faulty manufacturing? Everything's falling apart." All three fellows were looking at him now. None of them looked happy.

Greg cleared his throat. "The tumor is Afghanistan, the clot is Buffalo."

All three fellows turned back, almost in unison, to look at Greg. They all looked, in their different ways, as confused as Wilson felt.

"Does that need more explanation?" Greg said. "Okay, the tumor is Al-Azeez. Big bad guy with brains. We went in and wiped it out but it had already sent out a splinter cell; a small team of low level terrorists quietly living in some suburb of Buffalo, waiting to kill us all."

"Whoa," Foreman said. "You're trying to say that the tumor threw a clot before we removed it."

"It was an excellent metaphor," Greg said cheerfully. "Cameron, Foreman, angio her brain for this clot before it straps on an explosive vest. Chase, go talk to the mom."

The three fellows got up and left. Wilson remained at the table. Greg moved forward, leaned his cane against the table, and propped both his hands on the table so that he was leaning forward, into Wilson's face. He stared at Wilson with cold transparent eyes.

"Do not interfere with a differential," he said.

Wilson half-laughed. The attempt to intimidate was too clear. "Are you trying to scare me?"

"No," Greg said. He didn't move. "Inside this room, I'm the departmental head of diagnostics, this is my team, I run my department my way. I don't want you interfering with the process of a differential, no matter how concerned you are for the dying girl everybody loves."

Wilson tilted his head back and examined Greg. "You are trying to scare me," he said thoughtfully. "Interesting." He knew Greg couldn't stay in that position for too long: he just waited, his eyes on Greg, until with a lurching step, the slave moved back, away from the table.

Pretending to ignore Wilson, Greg moved to the coffeemaker, fussed around with a mug, did not offer any to Wilson, and moved over to sit by the window, looking out. The workmen, Wilson had discovered from an external inspection of the Diagnostic's balcony windows, had - temporarily? - sealed the windows and installed an air purifier. Cuddy was evidently trying to fix Greg's hay fever by removing him from the pollen count.

The phone rang. Greg answered it, said "Yes," briefly, and put it down again. "Angio was clean."

"There's no clot?" Wilson asked.

"There's a clot," Greg said thoughtfully, "we just can't find it."

"We can't do exploratory surgery on her brain," Wilson said helplessly.

"Are you sure you're not a neurologist?" Greg asked.

Wilson had honestly believed, till then, that there was going to be a happy ending: Andie would go home with her mom for another year. Greg had found the heart tumor by listening to the heart's beat. He had saved patients on longer calls. But even if Greg had discovered the problem... it wasn't fixable. "Okay, she's going to die."

"Well, the clot's not going to go away quietly. It could blow at anytime. Are you going to let them know?"

Wilson stood up. He had a reputation for being good at breaking bad news. "I guess so."

"Can I come with?" Greg asked.

"To tell Andie she's going to die?" Wilson surveyed Greg quizzically. "That's very un-you."

"She's such a brave girl," Greg said. "I want to see how brave she is when you tell her she's going to die."

For a moment, the words just hung there. Wilson stared at Greg. He slapped the coffee mug out of Greg's hands. The liquid splashed on the floor and on Greg's jeans. Wilson walked out. The nearest security station had leashes. He picked one up, went back, clipped it to the D-ring, and yanked on it: "Move." If this was diagnostically relevant, he told himself as he walked, Greg wasn't going to claim he hadn't been given what he asked for: if it wasn't, it would serve Greg right to be walked through the hospital on a leash with his collar tugging at his neck.

Greg followed at his heels, awkward but close. Wilson didn't let go of the leash till they were at Andie's room. He was too angry to notice any odd looks he was getting: he only thought about them afterwards. He tethered Greg where he could see Andie and her mom through the glass wall, and went in to tell the little girl she was going to die.

Andie's mom cried. Andie comforted her. Wilson would have been more moved, but through the glass window he could see Greg, chained by the neck to a tethering point, his pale face a bony twist reminding Wilson of the ugliness of death. He didn't want Greg tagged to take him home and comfort him, at this point, but to have the right to punish him. That tone of voice in which he'd declared Andie to be such a brave girl, still made Wilson itch to slap him.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Greg was looking better. The air purifiers seemed to work for him. Also, as Wilson was a little embarrassed about losing his temper earlier, he'd scored Greg some diphenhydramine and antihistamine.

"It's time," Wilson said. "Andie's going home."

Greg shrugged. "Right, parade of the small bald circus freaks. Sorry, I got a thing."

"They expect to see you," Wilson said.

"What are you going to do, take me down on a leash?" Greg asked.

"No. You might want to let them thank you."

Greg looked at him blankly and shrugged. "Andie knows I'm a slave. Don't think she'll expect to see me."

"How would she know?"

"I might have paid her a visit," Greg said. "Before the live autopsy. And I forgot to wear the rolltop, so she saw I was wearing a collar."

Wilson stared, puzzled. "Why did you do that?"_ And why tell me?_

"She had a right to know the details of what we were going to do. And say no."

"She's a child!" Wilson said indignantly.

"Nine-tenths of her life is over," Greg said, "and she knows it. That gives her... a perspective. Besides, if she was really that brave, she was mature enough to handle it.""

Wilson paused a moment, but Greg seemed to have finished. "Okay. I read the surgeon's report.

"Oh?" Greg looked faintly relieved, at Wilson not pursuing the issue of a private visit. Which he shouldn't have been able to manage.

"Clot was nowhere near her amygdala," Wilson said. And, just to rub it in, he added "Means her fear emotions were working perfectly."

"Yes," Greg said, and nodded.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "So her bravery was not a symptom."

"Yeah," Greg echoed. "I was wrong; she genuinely is a self-sacrificing saint whose life will bring her nothing but pain, which she will stoically withstand just so that her mom doesn t have to cry quite so soon. I'm beside myself with joy. Now will you go away?"

"She enjoys life more than you do," Wilson said.

Greg looked at him for a moment, and laughed, half-suppressed, bitter laughter. "Right," he said, and turned away, turning his back on Wilson and leaning up against the window, looking out. His shoulders were shaking. He was silent. Wilson glanced at his watch. He had to go now, or be late.

"I'll give Andie a hug from you," Wilson said, and left when it was clear that Greg was not going to turn away from the window, or face him, or even stop the small chuckles that were shaking his body.

_*tbc*_

_Thanks for reading, please review!_


	3. Humpty Dumpty

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

**2.03 Humpty Dumpty**

Stacy was handed the legal file almost as an afterthought. "The boy's sick: he belongs to Doctor Cuddy: make sure we shouldn't assign him to some other hospital."

Alfredo had belonged to Cuddy for eight years. He'd been injured falling off her roof. That shouldn't be intrinsically a problem. He'd get medical care, and there shouldn't be an issue about what medical treatment a broken bone ought to receive. Cuddy had bought a standard slave health insurance policy.

The slave was listed as a Diagnostics patient. Stacy stared down at that line on the screen, tapping with one finger. She didn't want to talk to House. If the slave had been assigned to Diagnostics, it meant Cuddy wasn't sure what was wrong with him, which meant it was more complicated than a broken bone falling off a roof.

"More complicated" meant a slave health insurance policy might refuse to pay out. It was better to have the hospital making those decisions _not_ be the hospital whose administrator owned the slave.

Stacy located Doctor Chase. He was performing tests in the Diagnostics ward.

"He's got a broken rib, and breathing problems," Chase said. "The most serious problem isn't either of those, it's his hand."

"Did he break his hand falling off the roof?" Stacy asked.

Chase was walking her to the door: he left the ward and closed the door behind them both. "No, his hand's turning dark." Chase seemed to realise this didn't mean anything to her. "His blood isn't clotting properly. It's probably disseminated intravascular coagulation, DIC, trauma-induced. House put him on a heparin drip."

"What does this mean?"

"DIC is also called consumptive coagulopathy," Chase said. "Formation of small clots throughout the body in the veins and arteries. Disrupts normal blood flow. In this case, to his hand."

"Is it bad?"

"DIC can lead to multiple organ failure and death," Chase said. He glanced back into the room through the glass wall.

"Is there another hospital he can be transferred to that can handle his case?"

Chase's gaze swung back towards her. He looked confused and a little annoyed. "If it is DIC, there isn't any reason to move him: if we can't reverse the clotting problem, he's going to die. If it isn't, House is probably the only doctor who can figure it out."

Stacy nodded, and went to find Cuddy. She was in her office, going through paperwork faster than usual, looking angry.

"You may need to move Alfredo to another hospital," Stacy told her bluntly.

"What?" Cuddy glanced at the file Stacy was holding. "Who gave you that?"

"You're the administrator of this hospital," Stacy said. "Alfredo is your property. It's my job as the hospital's lawyer to tell you that your insurance company may well not agree to cover Alfredo's treatment costs, since it will be argued that an independent hospital would not have provided this level of care - that it's not economically necessary to do so and not reasonable for a slave's health insurance to provide it."

Cuddy stared at her. "Alfredo's worked for me for a long time."

"That won't be considered relevant." Stacy spoke sympathetically.

"I bought him when he was twelve," Cuddy said. She rubbed at her forehead. "He's - He's under the care of Diagnostics, and we have a lot of experience getting insurers to cover the costs of the Diagnostics tests."

"How do patients usually come to the attention of Diagnostics?"

"A department head refers them: or an external consult: or the Diagnostics fellows can refer a patient to Doctor House's attention."

Stacy blinked. She had been trying not to react. She didn't think she'd ever heard Lisa Cuddy refer to House as "Doctor House" before.

"How did Alfredo get the attention of Diagnostics?"

"I saw his hand was turning black. In the ambulance, on the way in." Cuddy swallowed. "So I called in, had Greg meet us in ER."

Stacy lifted her hand. "Stop. Lisa, attorney-client privilege may not apply to this conversation, because my client is this hospital, not necessarily _you_. Did you call Greg, or the Diagnostics department?"

"What does it matter? They're the same thing."

"If you called the Diagnostics department, while you're not a head of department in the usual sense, you were requesting a consult. If you called Greg, you were summoning a slave the hospital owns to do you a service he couldn't reasonably refuse." Stacy felt very strange saying it, but it was true.

Cuddy looked at her with a moment's close attention, and nodded. "I called the Diagnostics department and requested a consult."

"Good," Stacy nodded. "Please try to remember that."

Behind her, the door opened. Stacy knew who it was, even before the shuffle-and-thump of a limping man with a cane: House. She heard the halt in his gait as he stopped, recognizing her, and then went on. He came up to the desk and stood to one side, not looking at her but at Cuddy. "Heparin isn't working." He wasn't looking at Cuddy, either, exactly: he was looking down at the desk.

"We need something stronger than heparin. Human activated protein C," Cuddy said.

"Protein C is indicated only for severe sepsis."

"Well, how many of his limbs have to be at stake, for it to be severe?" Cuddy snapped.

"Or it might not be DIC," House said. He glanced at Stacy. "You got a lawyer on the case already?"

Stacy said nothing.

"Protein C is crazy dangerous. It can cause internal bleeding. If he bleeds, he could stroke, he could die. And then you'd need to buy some other healthy young stud to screw."

House said it all in the same monotone. Stacy almost thought she'd misunderstood him. House when she knew him had said outrageous things, but always with a kind of twist to his voice, some indication that he knew he was screwing with you. When she looked at Cuddy's face, mouth narrowing and eyes widening, she knew she'd heard correctly.

"Possible environmental toxins," House said. If Stacy could see Cuddy was angry, so could he: but his voice hadn't changed. "Need permission to search his home and place of work. Oh wait, that'll be the same place. And you have access to both."

"You are not leaving the hospital," Cuddy said.

"I'll send Foreman and Chase."

"Foreman and Cameron," Cuddy said.

House smiled, briefly showing his teeth. "Need a list of any other homes he might have been in. He told me you loan him out."

"I'll give that to Cameron."

House nodded. He turned round and shuffled out, using his cane awkwardly, walking as if tired.

"He could get better," Cuddy said. She rubbed her forehead with both her hands.

"Forgive me," Stacy said, in her gentlest voice, "But as your lawyer I have to ask: do you have an intimate relationship with him?"

"With Alfredo?" Cuddy stopped rubbing her forehead. "I bought him when he was twelve. Greg was being outrageous. He knows I have to let him get away with it, so long as I want him working on this case."

"You 'loan him out'?"

"He does yard work for my neighbors," Cuddy said. She looked at Stacy again, bewildered. "I bought him when he was _twelve_. He's a boy. Why would anyone, _anyone_ think - "

"He isn't twelve any more," Stacy said. She believed Cuddy - but she had wondered earlier, what House had said so plainly. Alfredo wasn't a boy: he was a tall young man, handsome even lying on the hospital bed with a shiny metal collar round his neck.

"Judging by how it looks, he could lose his hand," Cuddy said. "I need to talk to Cameron and Foreman. I think you should be here."

"Why?"

"As far as I know, Alfredo doesn't go inside my neighbors' houses. Cameron can probably find out if he does. But there is one other house I know he does visit, and I need to know - is it legal to send them there?"

"What house?"

"His mother's. She lives a couple of miles away."

Stacy was confused. "You contact her owner and ask her owner's permission - "

"No," Cuddy said. "Nobody owns her. She's free. She lives with her younger son: I wrote Alfredo a pass so he can visit her, Saturday to Sunday." She rubbed her forehead again. "I used to do the same for Greg for you," she said, unexpectedly, and then caught Stacy's eye. "Sorry. We weren't going to talk about that. Alfredo's well-behaved, grateful, he works hard - I don't need him around at weekends, I don't _want_ him around at weekends, and he's never been late back from a pass since I started doing this. Is it legal to send Foreman to do a search of their home?"

"No," Stacy said. "Not without her permission. But you know they're not likely to say no if you send Foreman with a car to pick them up and bring them here to be with Alfredo... and by the way, can he search the home for toxins?"

Stacy paused. "You don't want to do that?"

"I don't want to meet his mother," Cuddy said flatly. "Or anyone else in his family." She stared off. "I'll send a car to have them picked up and brought here. Then Cameron and I will go to their house. No one else has to know."

"I shouldn't know about this," Stacy said, a bit exasperated.

Cuddy gave her another look. "I know you used to help Greg search his patient's homes," she said, sounding even more exasperated.

"He always had permission!" Stacy said, and realised what Cuddy was going to say even before she said it:

"He lied," Cuddy said.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Stacy walked into Cuddy's office that morning as a small boy turned and snarled at Cuddy, in a voice that hadn't yet broken, "Bitch!" and ran, dodging Stacy.

"Alfredo's brother," Stacy identified him.

Cuddy nodded. "Manny looks like Alfredo did, at that age. The protein-C caused complications - Alfredo was paralysed for a while - and Foreman found aspergillus under my sink, so they're treating him with amphotericin. He has lung infiltrates. But it looks like he might lose his hand, so - " She was speaking briskly, impersonally, and then she stopped and raised her hand to her face. She looked very distressed.

"Alfredo complained about breathing problems," she said. "I told him to go up the roof anyway. He has asthma, I thought he was trying to stop work early because he wanted to watch a Mexico-Argentina match. I wanted to get the roof fixed before it rained. But he had fungal pneumonia."

"Is that Manny's problem? How you treated Alfredo?" Stacy asked. She was still wondering why Cuddy had called her into the office.

"No," Cuddy said. "I wish it was. We're treating the fungal pneumonia, it's dangerous but it's aggressive, he'll get better soon. But Greg keeps saying we should amputate his hand, and I don't want to - he can't work without his hand."

"He'll be less valuable," Stacy offered, very impersonally.

Cuddy stared at her. "That's not - He's - Stacy, do you and Mark own slaves?"

"No," Stacy said. Mark was thoroughly uncomfortable with the idea: Stacy had backed off as soon as she'd realized this. They hired an agency to clean their home, and split the cooking. The agency used slaves, but they didn't belong to Stacy and Mark, and Mark never met them, anyway.

"Manny called me a bitch because I didn't want to buy _him_," Cuddy said. "Alfredo put himself up for sale because he figured what he'd bring would pay to put his brother through school. I don't know what to do about Alfredo. But I can't buy Manny."

"How did you end up buying someone who used to live so close to you?" Stacy was mildly surprised: in her experience, most children who were sold were sold far enough away their families couldn't locate them.

"It's an agency," Cuddy said. "FamilyReunited. Sells slaves with local family to local buyers. What does this have to do with anything? Stacy, I need you to go talk with Greg. He's doing clinic duty right now. I'll tell the clinic staff you can take him out. I need you to talk to him. Buy him lunch. Find out - " Cuddy took a deep breath, "why he wants to cut off Alfredo's hand."

"What?" It was Stacy's turn to take a deep breath. "Doctor Cuddy, you know I don't want to talk with ... Greg." _Clean break._

"I _need_ you to talk with him," Cuddy said. "I can't trust..." Her voice trailed off. "You were always able to handle him. I don't mean..." She gulped. "I can't tell if this is a medical decision or not. I can't tell if this is a _good_ medical decision or not. I just don't want to cut off Alfredo's hand, not if there's any other alternative. And I can't believe Greg can't think of one. He's been daring me to punish him all day."

"I won't do it," Stacy said. She meant it. Then.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

She shouldn't have gone to the Diagnostics ward. The small boy she had seen in Cuddy's office, and a woman who looked old enough to be Alfredo's grandmother, but was probably Stacy's own age, were sitting by the bed.

Stacy looked through the window at them. Alfredo was trying to smile, waving his hand: even without being able to hear, Stacy guessed he was trying to convince them he felt better.

He was waving his left hand. His right hand lay still by his side. Stacy went downstairs again without noticing who passed her, and to the clinic. "Doctor House" they told her, was in exam room three: he was almost at the end of his clinic hours for the morning. "I'll see him in there," Stacy decided. She had Cuddy's permission to take him to lunch, but that was exactly the kind of situation she had wanted to avoid.

House was sitting down with his feet up on the exam room table. He called out as Stacy opened the door, before he saw her, "With a patient!" but when the door opened, he fell silent. Stacy closed the door.

After a moment, House took his feet off the table - Stacy saw how he used his hands, automatically, to move his right leg, and she steeled her heart.

"What are you doing here?" he said, and his voice was as if to a stranger. His face looked closed-off. His eyes were wide, the white showing all around the blue.

"Is the proper medical course of action to cut off your patient's hand?"

"What are _you_ doing here? We're talking about cutting off some kid's hand, not subdividing it and putting in condos. It's not a legal issue."

"Is cutting off your patient's hand going to cure him?"

"No," House said. "Probably not. We still have no idea what the underlying cause is. Doctor Cuddy doesn't want to cut off his hand because he's not like me, he won't be any use to her as a cripple. She justifies it because his hand still has an arterial pulse." He spoke with a depth of bitterness Stacy had rarely heard. He stood leaning on his cane, eyeing her warily. He looked tired and very alone.

Stacy didn't move. "Why does amputation seem indicated to you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice impersonal.

"His hand is a cesspool. And the crap is spreading. Cutting off his hand could save his life."

"Even if it destroys his livelihood?"

"Someone will find some use for him," House said, and the bitterness in his voice was unbearable.

Stacy turned to go. "We'll need to convene the ethics committee," she said to the door, and put her hand on the handle.

"Please let me do the surgery," House said. He still sounded bitter, but he was begging - _pleading_ " - You can talk it out till he dies, or cut his hand off and give me time to find out what's wrong with him."

Stacy opened the door. If she turned back she was going to go to him. She shouldn't have agreed to see him. Clean break.

"It's not a _legal_ decision!" House shouted after her. He had a very loud voice, when he chose, though he didn't often raise it. Stacy kept going. She kept her face still and professional, but she didn't see where she was going or who she passed, until she was well out of the clinic and beyond the reach of his voice.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Stacy had been assigned a windowless office on the first floor: she locked herself inside it and buried herself in other work for hours. She sent Cuddy a terse e-mail, summarising her conversation with House: and that was all she could do.

All. She kept telling herself that. That was all.

At four, she realized she was done for the day. Mark would be surprised to see her so early, but she could make up some excuse. She did not particularly want to give him the real one.

The man standing on front of her. He wasn't wearing a lab coat - he looked like a finely polished professional from the shine of his shoes to his tie - but something about him said _doctor_ to her. And he wasn't moving out of her way, but not in an obnoxious style: he was acting as if he expected her to remember him.

"You bought me tea," she remembered. It felt like a very long time ago. He'd bought her a piece of carrot cake, the kind House used to eat with her, years ago.

He smiled, shaking his head, looking very boyish and handsome: Stacy smiled back, acknowledging his appeal. "I wondered if you'd remember me. I'm Doctor Wilson."

"Head of oncology." They were walking out together. "See, I do remember you."

"Thank you," Wilson said. "You're Stacy Warner. You just started working here. I wondered if I could buy you a drink?"

Stacy liked him. She said, nicely, "I'm married."

Wilson laughed, a bit awkwardly. "I'm divorced. Or rather, I'm divorcing."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Stacy said mechanically. Her eyes moved. She didn't want to spend even fifteen minutes listening to a man, however handsome, explain how his wife didn't understand him. Worse yet, if he expected her to provide free advice.

"It's not like that," Wilson said. "I'm sorry. I - really did just want to buy you a drink."

Stacy shook her head, again. She almost believed him. He seemed almost shy. "My husband is expecting me home," she lied.

"Oh well." Even then, he was nice. "Some other time. Please."

Stacy smiled, meaninglessly, and nodded goodbye. When she was driving out of the PPTH car park, she saw that Wilson was standing at his car, fumbling with the lock: he looked very tired, very sad. She almost wished she'd said yes.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The last thing Stacy had to do for the case was one she hadn't expected. She found Cuddy in the ward Alfredo had been moved to: Diagnostics already had another case.

"Then why do I get sick and nobody else," Alfredo was asking, quietly, as if in despair.

"Your asthma made you vulnerable," Cuddy said. "You re going to be all right now."

Alfredo's voice was very soft. "Yes. Gracias." He reached out with his left hand to take Cuddy's hand: Cuddy took his and held it between both of hers. "For saving my life," he whispered.

"I have this for you," Cuddy said. She took the envelope from Stacy and opened it for him, sliding the document into his hand.

Alfredo stared. He was frowning.

There were generally a lot of clauses to a statement of manumission, even an uncomplicated one such as Cuddy had asked Stacy to draw up. But the key one was at the start of the document, in larger text, a declaration that Alfredo Villarreal was declared by his owner Lisa Cuddy to be a freedman.

"This is real? I am no longer your slave?"

"There's some money in an account for you," Cuddy said. She was smiling, in an odd kind of way. "What you earned, working for my neighbors."

"I do not know what to say," Alfredo said, and his hand collapsed on his chest, holding the certificate. Stacy touched Cuddy's elbow. Alfredo's mother and Manuel were coming back. Cuddy nodded. "Your mother's here," she said. "Goodbye, Alfredo."

She walked out, brushing past the older woman and the boy, with the kind of unawareness that Stacy recognized. "My office," she said: it was closer and less conspicuous than Cuddy's. She sat Cuddy down with a bottle of water from the cooler, and pretended to read her e-mail as Cuddy drank the water and unobtrusively mopped her eyes.

"I am never doing that again," Cuddy said finally.

"Freeing someone?"

"Owning a slave. You and Mark have the right idea. No personal involvement." She sighed. "Never again."

_tbc_


	4. TB or Not TB

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, more or less based on the episode. _

**2.04 TB or Not TB**

The tag was an impulse buy. Wilson had walked into the store, picked it out, had it engraved, and gone on to his hotel, all inside an hour.

This was not an impulse buy. Wilson had driven over to the Martin dealer's at Monmouth, twice.

The first time, he'd wandered round the store, it slowly sinking in how many possible variations on _guitar_ he could buy. His parents had insisted that all their children who would sit still for it should have piano lessons: James had quit the lessons after a year. He'd never held a guitar. Wilson was basing this idea on a casual comment that Mrs Miller had made: anyone who could play piano could play guitar. He left the shop without anyone speaking to him, though he saw the sales assistant watching him.

The second time, the sales assistant came up to him almost right away, and asked him what he was looking for.

_Something to make Greg happy_ was the only answer that leapt to mind. The Dreadnought guitars were the most expensive, and also the largest: but even the largest guitar would easy to keep in either the Diagnostics cubbyhole or in Wilson's office.

"Are you thinking of playing concerts?" the sales assistant asked, and unexpectedly, Wilson felt embarrassed.

"It's not for me. It's for a - " He stopped. "It's for someone else."

"Okay," the sales assistant said. He eyed Wilson politely, but in such a way that Wilson had to wonder if he was blushing. "Well, Dreadnoughts produce a very big sound. If you're looking for something to play at home, but still a Martin, how about - " He said something, but Wilson didn't hear him: the sales assistant had pointed out the perfect guitar. Greg would look great holding it. The wood had a golden finish, fading to black, matching Greg's hair: the pickguard was a tortoiseshell pattern, but the color would match Greg's collar.

"The person you're buying for, are they left-handed too?"

"No." The guitar felt oddly light. Wilson had expected it to be heavier.

His cellphone rang. His lawyer. "Excuse me," Wilson said, and set the guitar down.

"James, I'm sorry: I can't get you a court date before Christmas. We're looking at January or even February now."

"Tell me this is a joke," Wilson said in a daze. "It's November. You said, back in October, four to six weeks. I'm living in a hotel."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. Truly sorry."

Wilson paid for the guitar almost in a daze: and extra sets of strings, and a set of picks. When he took out his wallet to get his credit card, the silver tag for Greg's collar with his name on it gleamed at him, frustrating him.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The next morning, Wilson came in hoping no one would ask him about the guitar case he was holding. No one did: Doctor Sebastian Charles, the famous TB doctor, who'd spent twenty years working with tuberculous patients in the poorest part of Africa, had collapsed during a presentation at Stoia Tucker, and his backers insisted he go to PPTH to find out why.

There were reporters hanging around in the hospital's foyer, eyed by security guards. Outside there were news cameras that had, Wilson found, just filmed Doctor Charles going in. Doctor Charles was, as Wilson saw when he passed Diagnostics, sitting in on the differential.

Wilson picked up a couple of sandwiches, a bag of chips, and two coffees, and had them bagged for taking upstairs. When he had Greg tagged he was going to bring him for lunch in the staff canteen. Instead of taking them to Diagnostics, he dropped them off in his own office.

"I want you to come through to my office for lunch," he told Greg.

"Busy," Greg said, continuing to stare at the whiteboard.

"You just need to think," Wilson said. "You can do that anywhere. Come through to my office for lunch."

Greg did look at him now. "Still busy."

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. Since Cuddy had made Greg treat Cuddy's slave, Greg had been moody even for him. Even though the slave had lived.

"Just come through to my office," Wilson said finally. "I'll call it a consult if I have to. Differential diagnosis on sandwiches."

Greg looked at him again, and seemed to think a moment. "Well, when you put it that way..." He levered himself to his feet, and turned towards the door.

"Did you hear about my newest patient?" Greg asked.

"Mm," Wilson agreed, holding the door open for Greg. He was excited, and trying not to show it.

"Every minute, four people die of TB. So let's say he sleeps six hours; that means every night he kills 1440 people. I guess even he has to get some sleep, but imagine knowing if you'd stayed up another 10 minutes you could have saved 40 lives. And every minute that we refuse to love one another, another puppy cries another tear."

Greg stopped talking. The hardcase was leaning against Wilson's sofa: the coffee and sandwiches were on the table in front of it. Greg stood looking at the hardcase for a long moment, silent, and then sat down on the sofa, at the other end from the guitar.

Wilson sighed. He picked up the guitar case, shifted it to Greg's end of the sofa, and sat down.

Greg reached into the bag for a sandwich, which he bit into without looking at it. Or at the guitar. Or at Wilson. He was sitting in a frozen huddle with his elbows tucked in, eating the sandwich quickly and efficiently, his eyes on the table.

"That's for you, by the way," Wilson said.

Greg picked up the coffee and drank from the cup. "Thanks," he said. He moved to get up. Wilson took his cane away and pushed him back down, beginning to be actually exasperated. He cleared the remains of the lunch off the table, and put the hardcase down on it, unclicking the snaps himself as Greg seemed not inclined to.

The guitar still looked as beautiful to Wilson as it had in the store. But Greg looked at it like a nightmare, looked away again, catching Wilson's eyes, and shivered all over, literally shuddering.

"What do you want for this?" he said finally. He still hadn't touched it.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you want for this?" Greg said again.

"Do you like it?"

"It's a Martin 0018-GE 1937 Sunburst," Greg said, as if that should be enough answer. "You want to give it to me, that means you want something from me, and you want it really badly and you don't think you can get it from me without at least minimal cooperation." He managed to get to his feet without the cane, using the arm of the sofa for leverage, and stared at Wilson. "Whatever it is." He stood, looking uncertain of his balance. "Can I have my cane back?"

"I just want to give you a guitar," Wilson said. He handed Greg the cane.

"That's not even remotely true," Greg said, and went out, as briskly as he could.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Towards the end of the day there was usually a window during which the Diagnostic fellows had gone home and Greg was not yet due at the clinic for his evening shift. Cuddy had ordered the door from Diagnostics on to the balcony unsealed a few days ago: Wilson clambered over the separating wall, carefully lifting the guitar over, and went into the cubbyhole where Greg lived.

Greg was sitting in the Eames chair, his feet up, listening to his iPod, or he would have heard Wilson getting over the wall: his eyes opened abruptly when Wilson came in, and he pulled the earphones off and tucked them into his pocket, very quickly.

"I brought your guitar," Wilson said.

"It's not mine," Greg said after a moment.

"Well, technically, it's still mine," Wilson agreed after a moment. "To keep it safe." He had put his name on the guitar strap, and on the inside of the case, to make sure that any search of Greg's quarters for contraband would simply return this very expensive instrument to Wilson. "Obviously if you play it at times when you might disturb people, Doctor Cuddy will probably ask me to take it back. But I'm assuming you have more sense than that." He leaned the guitar against the wall. "It's yours to play. I don't want anything from you."

Greg didn't move. "My patient tried to sit in on the differential this morning," he said. "I had to send him off for tests to get rid of him. He has TB, but that's not causing his symptoms. He's so sure that TB is his problem that once Cameron had him tested, he won't pay attention to anything else." He was eyeing Wilson warily. "What are you going to do to me if I take that guitar and drop it off the balcony?"

Wilson bit down on an instant, angry reaction, and reconsidered. He was fairly sure that if Greg actually wanted to smash the guitar he would do it and pretend it was an accident, not mention it upfront and demand a reaction before he did it. Which meant Greg _did_ want the guitar.

"So it's TB, but not TB?" Wilson asked.

Greg smiled, faintly. "I'm complicated."

"The guy does know tuberculosis. If he says it can manifest itself - "

"The problem is there are 26 letters in the alphabet and he only uses two of them. He treats thousands of patients with one diagnosis. He knows the answer going in. It's cheating."

"So because he's one of them useless specialists - "

"Oh, did I hurt the big time oncologist s itty bitty feelings? You re a big help to patients who actually have cancer. Other times you're just annoying."

Wilson took a deep breath. "Are you trying to _make_ me hurt you?" he demanded in frustration.

"We both know you're _going_ to hurt me," Greg said. "It's just a question of how much, and when." He leaned his head back against the chair's headrest. "Judging by that guitar," he added dryly, "about three thousand dollars worth of pain."

"Three thousand eight hundred and seventy, including sales tax," Wilson snapped, and walked out: he was back at the hotel before he stopped rehearsing angry tirades at Greg in his head.

For the first time, that night, when he jerked off, he deliberately thought of Greg in pain: worked up a fantasy of watching Greg being whipped, hearing him scream.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Doctor Sebastian Charles was leaving PPTH, the tumor cured, a supply of pills for the resistant strain of TB in his carry-on luggage. Wilson glanced out of the window and saw Greg on the balcony. He went out to stand next to him, a wall between them.

The noise of the press below drifted up to them: even Doctor Charles's voice, smooth and carrying, delivering another telethon-style speech.

"It's not about the kids dying every 8 seconds, it's about the media stroking. Adulation and pats on the head," Greg said. He spoke quite normally, for Greg, and Wilson glanced at him: a successful case seemed to make Greg happier. Wilson was getting mild flashes of guilt over his sexual fantasy last night. He hadn't hurt Greg, but he certainly got off on it.

"That's your problem with him, isn't it?"

"Look at him," Greg muttered, "he loves it. Eats it up."

"Yes, the man actually enjoys what he does."

"Listen, I saved his life." Greg gave Wilson a look, that held, Wilson thought, more humor than anger for the first time in a long while. "That means I get credit for every life he saves from here on out."

"I'll make sure Stockholm knows."

Greg pushed himself away from the wall. He stood looking at Wilson for a moment. "Thanks," he said, in a small voice, "for the guitar."

"You're welcome," Wilson said directly. He smiled.

Greg turned away and went back inside. Wilson felt for his wallet, but didn't take it out. He didn't need to. He knew Greg was going to be his, soon.

**_tbc_**

_Thanks for reading, please review! Sorry, the next chapter/episode probably won't be for a few days ... but hope you'll enjoy it when it finally goes up!_

_Chapter 5 is now complete (18 September), and just waiting on Fanfiction Support to let me know why I can't upload it!  
_


	5. Daddy's Boy

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". Assuming I can keep it up, there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. This one turned out long and complicated and probably unsatisfying and ffnet wouldn't let me upload it at first...but, wothehell, here it is.  
_

**2.05 Daddy's Boy**

Foreman had never appreciated before that Greg had very clear handwriting. Wilson had the usual doctoral scrawl. Also, he'd walked into the Diagnostics conference room, dropped a file on the table, and started writing on the whiteboard as if he owned it. Or owned Greg.

Foreman leaned back in his chair and studied the symptoms Wilson was listing on the whiteboard, or what he could make out of Wilson's handwriting. The he reached for the file. It sounded like an interesting case.

"Patient experiences shock-like sensations, as well as headaches, nausea, and drowsiness."

From the questioning note in Chase's voice, he'd been having the same trouble reading Wilson's handwriting. "Shocks?"

"Excruciatingly painful shocks," Wilson confirmed with a nod. "ER docs referred him to a neurologist, who referred him to five other doctors in the last seven days."

Through the glass wall, Foreman could see Greg coming along the hall towards Diagnostics. He was walking slowly, tired, presumably because he had just climbed all of the flights of stairs between the first floor and the fourth, lacking an escort to let him use the elevators safely. If he'd already agreed to take Wilson's case, he'd be walking faster, and the expression on his face would be different, more thoughtful and less closed-off. Which meant Wilson was just assuming "Doctor House" would accept the case: which he might, given this was Wilson, but ... Foreman didn't touch the file.

"Shocks could be L'Hermitte's Sign, early symptom of MS," Cameron was suggesting.

"No, MRI showed no white matter lesions," Wilson said, "and the shocks aren't accompanied by neck flexing."

The door opened. Doctor House walked in. He stopped by the door, looking Wilson over.

"We're discussing your new patient," Wilson said.

"Must be a boring discussion, considering that I haven't accepted a new patient," Doctor House said.

"You're going to like this. Kid's getting shocked every few minutes," Wilson told him.

"College student?" House moved towards the table, picked the file up and glanced through it. "Nitrous oxide is fun at parties. 'Cause the shocks and drinking 'til you puke every night can cause everything else. Give him some B12."

Wilson stood by the whiteboard, his arms folded. "Been there done that, also ruled out cancer, MS, pyridoxine toxicity, and all the popular neuropathies."

Still glancing through the file, House sighed. "Cervical spondylosis?"

"Doesn't explain the low white count," Wilson said. Foreman glanced at the whiteboard again. That particular scrawl midway down had to be "low white count", even though the l looked more like an r.

House shrugged. "Genetics, diuretics, cervical herpes osteomyelitis?" He was still eyeing Wilson, and he didn't argue at Wilson's headshake for each one. He hadn't protested at all about Wilson writing on the whiteboard. "Okay." House dropped a chart from the file in front of Foreman. "Something's missing. Find out what it is."

Foreman reached for the chart. He couldn't see anything obvious missing. "I don't even know what that means."

"Well, figure it out," House said blandly, "find it out, and then find me, I'll be right here having lunch, if Doctor Wilson is dealing sandwiches in exchange for patients."

Foreman glanced at Greg's collar. No sign of a tag. He and Chase had speculated a little about when Wilson would tag Greg. (Cameron didn't want to know.) No tag didn't mean Wilson wasn't doing Greg: just meant Wilson didn't care if anyone _else_ was doing Greg.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The three fellows were gone. Greg continued to stand by the door, hands fixed on his cane, fixing Wilson with a cold blue gaze. He didn't say anything. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck.

"Sit down," Wilson said finally.

Greg didn't move. "I want to take a shower," he said at length, in a small voice. His hands shifted on the head of his cane, as if he wanted to take a step forward. "

Wilson wanted to hear about the guitar. He wanted to see Greg holding it.

"I won't be long," Greg said. He shifted his cane again. Wilson realized Greg was gearing up to walk to the Diagnostics cubbyhole even though that meant walking right by Wilson, and he was now as wary as he'd been months ago, or even more so: bracing himself.

The guitar couldn't have made that much difference. Could it?

"I'll page you to my office, when I'm ready for lunch," Wilson said, and went out.

A couple of hours later, when he paged, Greg didn't respond: and when he went into Diagnostics to check, the only person there was Chase, doing an Internet search through a police database; he looked up at Wilson and raised his eyebrows.

"Nice guitar."

"What?" Wilson said. He had just confirmed that Greg wasn't in his cubbyhole.

"Cameron saw it when she went in to check his mail," Chase said. "And since we haven't had any guitar-playing patients recently, and obviously he didn't get it for himself, we all figured you gave it to him." He leaned back in his chair and regarded Wilson seriously. "He never goes down to the slave canteen for lunch. He did today."

"Never?"

Chase shrugged. He looked back down at his computer screen. "House wanted the original police report on the mom's car accident. She veered off a straight dry road in broad daylight. It could be Type 2 neurofibromatosis. Foreman and Cameron are getting a DNA analysis of the long arm of chromosome 22. None of us thought of linking the mom's death fifteen years ago to her son's now. He's really, really good at what he does."

Chase went on staring at the screen. He said nothing more. He hadn't even looked at Wilson while he was saying it. Wilson stared at the blond, bent head, sighed through set lips, and walked out.

He _knew _Greg was good at what he did. He didn't intend to interfere wuth that. He sat down in his own office and contemplated the two sandwiches and two coffees, the piece of carrot cake, and wondered why the hell he didn't just tag the stubborn ass and be damned with Julie.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Chase didn't think about his father very much before he died. He had even less reason to think about him afterwards.

"Sphincter paralysis plus shocks equals Miller Fisher syndrome," Foreman said.

"Not if you had the stool sample which was negative for botulinism," Chase said. Both Foreman and Cameron had managed to avoid being the one who got the sample and took it off for testing.

"He lied to his son about how his mom died?" House asked thoughtfully.

Cameron sounded defensive. "He was just protecting him."

"Manipulating him," House corrected. He had reappeared when Chase paged him, having spent three hours away from the Diagnostics department, apparently eating lunch and having his hair cut and his face shaved. He looked tidier after a visit to the slave groomer, but wearier and older: the grey streaks were more visible in neatly clipped hair.

"It's what parents do," Cameron said.

"They lie to us because they love us," House said. "Who's getting teary?" He glanced down the table at Chase, as if wondering why he wasn't contributing to the differential.

"Mom's death is irrelevant," Foreman told House. "DNA revealed no NF2 markers or any other inherited disease. Apparently, she really did fall asleep at the wheel."

"So, what exactly are we talking about here? A little peeker, or did the prairie dog actually come out to play?"

"Excuse me?" Cameron sounded shocked, which faintly amused Chase.

"Are we talking explosive?"

"I wouldn't say he actually exploded," Cameron said delicately. "More like... gushed?"

The Diagnostics phone started ringing. House said "Good, now we're getting somewhere," and reached for it.

"Yeah? Where?" Foreman asked.

"I have no idea," House said as he picked up the phone. "Hello?"

" Of course! The riddles," Foreman said, but Chase was watching House's face. He'd seen Doctor House fade away and Greg appear, more often than he could remember, but never before so fast, so completely, in response to just a phone call.

"Hi Mom," Greg said.

And then he fell silent again. Foreman and Cameron were watching him intently, as startled as Chase was. Through the phone they could hear the faint crackle of an emotional voice. Greg was holding it close to his ear, his mouth open slightly, a dazed, scared expression on his face. As they watched, Chase saw his mouth close, his eyes narrow, and the usual closed-off expression appear like a wall.

"No. I can't. I have clinic duty Thursday night. No, I can't. I really, I wanted to see you too. I know. I'm in a meeting right now. Good bye."

"Who was that?" Cameron asked.

Chase glanced at her. Cameron wasn't being stupid. She was just ... shellshocked.

"Angelina Jolie. I call her mom. Who thinks that's sexy?" House limped to the whiteboard. "So, explosive or gushing..."

"She never calls you, is everything okay?"

"Great, yeah. If it's gastrointestinal..." Greg and House were struggling with each other in the expression on House's face.

"Doctor Cuddy would let you off clinic duty if you asked," Cameron said. Chase looked down at the table. Slaves weren't forbidden contact with their families, if they had free families, but every effort went into separating a slave from any biological relatives. Messing around with that...

"Transverse myelitis," Foreman said deliberately. "Could cause numbness, anal sphincter dysfunction, and the shocks."

"Thank you for taking no interest in my mother," House said. He looked like Doctor House, though his right hand was resting against the whiteboard and he hadn't tried to write anything. "But that begs the question, what caused the transverse myelitis?"

"Well, we've ruled out cancer and MS," Foreman said. His voice was still deliberate, still sensible and unchallenging. "Leaves infection."

"If there's infection there'd be a fever," Cameron retorted. She was beginning to sound normal again.

Chase opened his mouth and said automatically "And his blood and CSF cultures are all negative."

"Maybe the infection's gone but the memory remains," Foreman offered. Chase glanced at him. In a better mood, he'd have been annoyed by that idea.

"Molecular mimicry," House said. "Nice. Okay, get an immunoglobulin level and an electrophoresis."

They all got up. Chase glanced back. He saw House standing leaning on his cane, a familiar position when House was studying the whiteboard: but instead House was staring at the silent phone.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Somehow, Cameron had never thought of House as anyone's son. No parents would surely let their child be enslaved if they were alive or free themselves.

"You really think that was his mom on the phone?" she asked Foreman and Chase, as soon as they were out of earshot of the Diagnostics conference room.

"Probably," Chase said, almost sullenly. "Don't know why he'd lie about that."

"Who cares?" Foreman sounded self-satisfied, more than exasperated.

"You're not the least bit curious what his parents are like?" Cameron was.

"I'm sure his mom's a piece of work!" Foreman's voice still held only satisfaction. Cameron looked at him in dislike. "Only a mother could do that much damage," he added, and looked back at her.

"My bet's he was _born_ the way he is," Chase said, vindictively. "Probably tormented his parents, not the other way around."

"Yeah," Foreman said, contemplatively, "he was either a fast runner or one hell of a fighter."

Cameron wasn't sure of the bureaucratic complexities behind reuniting free parents with enslaved son, but she was sure that it had to have been a long, long time since House's mom had seen him. They both deserved it. And she was pretty certain that Wilson, who was clearly fond of House, could fix it somehow. (Chase hinted lubriciously: Foreman made dirty jokes with a straight face: but Cameron was sure Wilson just liked House, and had given him the guitar to make him happy.)

The tests wouldn't take three doctors. Cameron turned away from the other two, ignoring Foreman's sharp "Where are you going?" and tossing a dismissive goodbye at them. Where she was going was to fix things.

Wilson was seeing a patient. His assistant told her that he would be ten more minutes, and more or less free after that, for an hour-long window that he meant to use doing rounds. Cameron promised she'd be done in five, and waited.

"Was there something important that you and House needed to discuss over lunch?" she asked. Because House had evidently spent that time down in the slave quarters of the hospital: eating, being shaved, having his hair trimmed.

"Where was he? It couldn't have taken him three hours to eat lunch."

Briefly, Cameron explained. Then she said, "Because if you were going to discuss something with him outside the hospital..." Wilson's head tilted to one side, watching her.

"...then you could arrange for him to meet his parents."

Wilson threw his pen down. He had been playing with it absently, listening to her.

"They rang. His mom did. I'm pretty certain they want to see him. Thursday. Doctor House said he had clinic duty on Thursday evening."

"Oh-ho," Wilson said, very quietly, looking at her but not seeming to see her. "His parents?"

"I didn't get to speak to them," Cameron said. "But his mom, anyway." She hesitated. "I'd really like to get to meet them."

Wilson looked at her. "Don't you have work to do?" he said coldly.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"You have no evidence to support a poisoning diagnosis," Foreman said.

And the patient _didn't_ have a crappy relationship with his dad, quite evidently. Lying about a midterm break so that you could go to Jamaica instead of working in a junk yard didn't strike Foreman as being evidence of anything but a college kid wanting to have a cool holiday.

Cameron was still smiling sweetly over her "dinner plans". She'd gone to talk to Wilson or to Cuddy, Foreman had worked out: most likely Wilson, given that she'd approached the Diagnostics department from the exact opposite direction than Wilson's office, when the natural approach was walking past it. Either she was dating Wilson, in which case it was going to be really interesting to watch House's face when he figured this out, or she'd told Wilson he shouldn't be walking into the Diagnostics department and treating it as if it were his own, and Wilson had defended himself by asking her out on a date... in which case it was going to be really interesting to watch House's face when he figured this out.

("Cameron, who were you making dinner plans with?" - "No one.")

Foreman liked and understood both the kid and his dad: the kid was a scholarship-winner, a high achiever from the same kind of background Foreman came from, moving among rich kids who liked him and who had parents with private planes: his dad had a thing about his son accepting stuff from rich friends, which was probably going to keep the kid on track.

He still didn't think the poisoning was caused by marijuana. The kid had no signs of being a pothead. It was definitely a zebra: if Wilson had handed the file to Foreman, Foreman would have referred it on to House. A pralidoxime IV was actually dangerous, if the kid didn't have pesticide poisoning.

House smirked at Foreman. "Which is why it's going to be so cool when I turn out to be right."

Foreman went down to the ground floor. Cuddy's assistant asked him to wait, but only for five minutes.

"I have a query about Doctor Wilson," Foreman said, very crisply.

Cuddy closed her eyes, very briefly, but her expression did not otherwise change. "In what respect?"

"Does he have special privileges with regard to the Diagnostics department?"

Cuddy's expression did change: her face became colder, more still. "In what respect?"

"This morning, we got a new case."

Cuddy nodded. "Carnell Hall. Yale Health Plan. Referred by Doctor Wilson."

"He wasn't 'referred' by Doctor Wilson," Foreman said. "Doctor Wilson simply came into the Diagnostics department with the file, announced that Greg had a new patient, and started writing the symptoms up on the whiteboard. Greg was still on clinic duty: Doctor Wilson hadn't spoken to him about it."

"Nor to Doctor Chase? Or Cameron?"

"No," Foreman said.

"Is your issue that Hall isn't 'diagnostically interesting'?"

"He seems to be," Foreman said mildly. "We're running tests now: Greg's - " He had nearly said 'Doctor House', but he knew Doctor Cuddy would take his complaint more seriously if he didn't " - current theory is pesticide poisoning."

"And your theory?" Cuddy asked.

Foreman looked carefully blank. "Pesticide poisoning would explain his symptoms. He flew to Jamaica at spring break. I don't have an issue with his being our patient: I have a query about hospital referring procedures. As far as I know no other department head is allowed to require that Diagnostics shall take a patient. That's why I asked about Doctor Wilson's special privileges."

"I see," Cuddy said, and nodded, looking him over, her face expressionless. "Thank you for bringing that to my attention, Doctor Foreman."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson came away from Cuddy's office ready to burst with anger. He went back to his own office to collect his briefcase. The security guard at the end of the hall looked at him apathetically as Wilson passed him. He was one of the tall guards - one of the ones who were an unofficial squad for moving Greg, without possibility of resistance.

Cuddy had refused to say who had complained about his "highhanded behavior", but none of the other doctors who had seen Carnell Hall would have complained - in fact, Wilson had been the last because, he'd discovered, he was beginning to get a reputation as someone who could "handle" Greg. And that's what he'd been doing: handling him. Getting the information about the case out there on the whiteboard so that Greg could see it was diagnostically interesting.

Greg's stubborn, poisonous, vindictive behavior was out of all proportion to Wilson's overstepping the line - if he had: as a department head he had the right to refer patients to Diagnostics.

Wilson sat down at his desk. He had left his desktop powered up when he went to speak with Cuddy: it hadn't seemed worth shutting down for what he'd assumed to be a five-minute meeting. He logged on.

Greg's family was sealed. Officially, you couldn't look up a slave's background. Practically, of course, any owner could, if they could provide a good reason. And someone at PPTH already had, years ago: Greg's parents were John and Blythe House. John - _that_ was odd, Wilson thought - had served in the USMC, a thirty-year man. Blythe was a housewife: she'd taken John's surname when they married.

They were going to be in New Jersey, near Princeton, tomorrow night. Of course it might be a long layover, but Wilson was willing to take the time to check.

The third hotel he rang was the payoff: when he asked if he could leave a letter for John and Blythe House at reception, instead of a bewildered or a chilly reaction, he got a cheerful "Certainly sir, just hand it in with their names _clearly_ written on the envelope, please."

"They're due to check in tomorrow, aren't they?" Wilson said. "I just wondered if they were driving up or flying."

"Couldn't say, sir," the cheerful voice said. "But from the estimated time of arrival, I'd say driving: it's about right for a road trip from Virginia."

He didn't say what the "estimated time" was. Wilson wrote out his note to Greg's parents several times, finally making it simple:

"Dear Mr and Mrs House, I'm a friend of your son's - my name is Doctor James Wilson and I run the Oncology department at PPTH. I wondered if you both would like to have dinner with me on Thursday night, and I'll certainly try my best to get Greg out of clinic duty for that evening."

He printed out the letter on his departmental headed letter paper, signed it, added one of his cards as additional evidence of his bona fides.

"Friend" wasn't the right word. But to Greg's parents, it probably was.

He would decide tomorrow if he wanted to spring Greg from clinic duty. Whether or not, he was going to have dinner with Greg's parents. Right now, he wasn't inclined to do Greg any favors.

Outside his office, there was a thump. Wilson looked up, startled. His office was as soundproof as he could make it: terminal cancer patients didn't like noises that suggested they could be overheard. He got up.

Two of the big security guards were standing over Greg, who had fallen - _or been thrown_, Wilson thought - against Wilson's office wall. His cane had rolled away: Wilson picked it up.

"What's going on here?" he asked brusquely.

"We've got it under control, Doctor Wilson," the older guard said, in a reassuring voice. They both reached down and, grabbing his arms, hauled Greg to his feet.

"He was supposed to be coming to see me," Wilson said.

Greg lifted his head and looked at Wilson. His eyes were wide. Then he twitched his head, not much, towards the end of the hall.

The security guard on duty was still there. Or rather, he was new, a different guard: there had been a shift change, and the guard who had been on duty was right in front of him, holding Greg's left arm firmly, his left arm around Greg's shoulders. Wilson saw the guard's thumb moving against Greg's bare arm, almost a caress.

"Get Greg into my office," Wilson said. "He was supposed to be coming to see me."

"He walked right past your office door," the other guard said.

"Well, Greg and I will have to have a discussion about that, won't we?" Wilson said. "Get him in here." He held the door open.

"When will you be finished with him?" the older guard asked.

"Can't say," Wilson said. "Thanks for your help."

The guards let go of Greg in a way that made him overbalance: he landed on his ass on the floor, and both guards were grinning as they walked out.

Wilson walked over to close and lock the door. Behind him, Greg said tiredly, but with real appreciation, "Thanks for getting me away from them." He heard Greg pulling himself to his feet.

"They were both off duty, weren't they?" Wilson said. He got no answer, and turned round.

Greg was bending over Wilson's desk staring at something on it: the letter. His parents' names, written clearly on the envelope.

"You bastard," Greg said. His voice was unexpectedly deep and strong and angry. He jerked away from the desk as Wilson came towards him, still holding the cane. He stood still, frozen in the act of balancing on one and a half legs. He said again, "You bastard," but his voice was smaller, more afraid.

"I invited your parents to dinner," Wilson said. "That's all."

Greg stopped talking. He stared at Wilson, his mind visibly processing. "Dinner plans," he said. "Cameron's got a big mouth."

"Hey. I didn't ask Cameron along." Wilson paused and frowned. "Or you... yet. Dinner Thursday. Want me to ask Cuddy to spring you from clinic duty?"

Greg swallowed. His eyes got wider. He stared at Wilson, and then his eyes moved to take in the door behind him.

"You really want to walk out and deal with those charmers out there?" Wilson said.

"I'm thinking about it," Greg said with dead seriousness. His hands were twitching. "Can I have my cane back?"

"When you're ready to go," Wilson said. He jerked his hand in the direction of the balcony doors. "Where were you going? I know you can get over the wall, so you can get back into Diagnostics that way. You'll be safe there."

Greg laughed. It was sudden, really unexpected laughter, cut off with a sharp snap of his jaws. "No," he said. "The guards... they've got rules. Limits. But you. I have no idea what your limits are. I don't know where you'll draw the line. I don't know if you'll draw the line. I just want my cane back."

"That's not even close to being true," Wilson said, deliberately echoing Greg.

Again, Greg looked past Wilson's shoulder, at the door: even though if he left through the door, he would certainly be taken by the security guards again.

"You're trying to avoid seeing your parents," Wilson said.

"Well, what do you care?" Greg demanded.

"It's interesting," Wilson said.

Moving awkwardly, Greg tried to start walking towards the door. Wilson caught at his arm. "Sit down."

Greg had been to the slave groomer today: he was shaved and trim. His hair was clipped close to his skull. It made him look more like a prisoner than a slave. "Hey," Wilson said, quietly. "one meal, how can it be that bad? Your parents can't have had many chances to see you since you were sold."

Greg gave him a trapped look and tugged: when Wilson didn't let go, Greg stood still, head down. "What do you want?" he asked. "Whatever it is, just tell me, I'll do it, and give me that letter and - "

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want to see my parents. Either of them."

"Even if you manage to avoid them this time," Wilson said reasonably, "they know where you are, they can come back some other time. If you hate them, tell them now."

"I don't hate her," Greg said. "I hate him. Please, give me my cane back."

"Sit down," Wilson said. "You might as well wait in here." He walked away, still holding the cane, and sat down at his desk. After a moment, Greg folded.

Literally: he seemed to fold at waist and knee, collapsing down on to the floor. He sat down, in front of Wilson's desk, the one part of the office in which Wilson could not see him. And he was silent.

Wilson had expected, if anything, Greg to go to the sofa: it wasn't far away, and Greg could easily get there without his cane. Or he might have tried to get out the door, or out over the balcony, but that would have meant temporarily abandoning his cane.

Well, Wilson could outwait him. He opened up his e-mail and began doing some of his routine work.

Greg never stirred. He hardly seemed to breathe. Wilson couldn't see him, but he could hear him when he shifted on the carpet. He did that a couple of times, perhaps trying to get into a more comfortable position, and then he stopped. Wilson went on working.

After an hour, Wilson looked up, realizing suddenly how much time had passed. The office was silent. He hadn't heard Greg in ages. Wilson waited, letting a couple of minutes pass. His screensaver began to decorate the screen. No sound. He wasn't even sure he could hear Greg breathing any more. Had the slave managed to get out if the room without Wilson noticing, staying low and moving quietly while Wilson was distracted?

Wilson got up and moved round the desk. Greg was still sitting in front of the desk, his right leg out in front of him, his left leg folded up against his chest with his arms wrapped round it, his shoulders hunched. He looked up at Wilson. He didn't say anything. After a moment, he ducked his head down, becoming a hunched, huddled lump. He was shivering. It was all too over the top to be convincing.

"Get up," Wilson said.

Greg's shoulders moved. He said in a small voice, "Can't."

"Can't or won't?" Wilson reached down, taking hold of Greg's shoulders, then shifting his grip down to Greg's upper arms. He braced himself, ready to pull; Greg jerked his head back.

"Don't!" His eyes were wide and blue. He swallowed, keeping his eyes fixed on Wilson. "My leg hurts," he said.

"Your leg always hurts," Wilson said.

"They threw me against the wall," Greg said. He glanced at the clock: it was nearly 7:30. His evening shift, and his second daily dose of oxycontin, was due at 8. "I need my cane. I can't get up without it. Please. What do you want?"

"Think about this," Wilson said. "Your parents found out where you are. No one here told them. If you want to blame anyone, blame Vogler, for putting you on display like that. Maybe you can avoid seeing them this time. But they'll be back. You might as well see them now as later."

"I'm fine with later."

"How much later?"

"After I'm dead."

"Not really practical, is it?" Wilson firmed his grip and braced himself. "Come on. You need to get up."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cuddy's morning e-mail informed her that Wilson had contacted the clinic the previous evening, at quarter of eight, to let them know that Greg wouldn't be doing his shift. Wilson had also written a prescription for a single dose of oxycontin, and filled it at the 24-hour pharmacy.

Luckily, the previous night at the clinic had been light. Greg's absence had annoyed the clinic staff more than inconvenienced them.

The Diagnostics patient was better. Not healthy, but the nausea and diarrhoea had gone away: he was eating a hearty breakfast. But still suffering electrical shocks, and he still had an alarmingly low white count.

Cuddy found out from Wilson's assistant when he had a half hour between patient appointments in his morning schedule, and arrived in Wilson's office just at that moment.

"What happened to Greg last night?"

"I made a mistake," Wilson said calmly. He looked at Cuddy, his face expressing regret. "He was in my office - I was giving him some temporary shelter from two security guards who wanted some fun - "

"Were they on duty?"

"No," Wilson said.

"Then why did you stop them? Were they harming him?"

"I think they threw him against the wall outside my office."

"More likely Greg threw _himself_ into the wall," Cuddy said. "Security here isn't allowed to harm Greg, and Greg knows it quite well. He takes advantage of that, in fact."

"I let him into my office. I told him to sit down. I assumed he would sit down on the sofa, but he sat down on the floor by my desk, and stayed there for an hour. I tried to pull him to his feet, and his leg had stiffened up: I hurt him quite a bit." Wilson looked apologetic. "So I took him back to his bunk, got him some oxycontin, and of course I let the clinic know."

"If Greg can't get to his feet on his own, you should get assistance," Cuddy told Wilson, mechanically. Wilson shouldn't have needed to be told that. But it sounded as if Greg had been trying some kind of self-sabotage: he'd fought with the security guards, he'd refused to take a reasonable seat in Wilson's office, and he must have known what an hour on the floor would do to his leg: he should have warned Wilson.

"Why would Greg want to self-harm?" Cuddy said out loud.

A defensive frown crossed Wilson's face. Cuddy noted it.

"What makes you think he was self-harming?"

"I've had a lot of experience with him..." Cuddy said. She was watching Wilson intently. There was something else, something problematic, but her PA would know - if it was on the hospital grapevine at all. And there was more than a trace of guilt in Wilson's voice: it wasn't _just_ self-harm. Wilson had done something to Greg, too.

"Why don't you tag him?"

"My divorce - "

"If your wife's lawyer makes an issue of it, I will personally testify that you tagged the slave at my request as a disciplinary matter," Cuddy said briskly. "But I doubt if it's likely to come to her attention, so long as you don't move Greg in with you."

"I thought you wanted me to hold off tagging Greg while Stacy Warner was at the hospital."

"Yes, I did," Cuddy said. "Warner handled Greg better than anyone. But she's made clear she's not interested in him any more."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cameron had gone looking for Doctor House when it was clear something was going wrong with Carnell Hall's treatment. Chase stayed with the patient. When she came back with House in tow, he must have been in the clinic: he was already wearing the rollneck that hid his collar and the white lab coat that meant most patients didn't even look for it.

"He has the chills and his temperature's spiking. It's nearly 106," Cameron said.

Unexpectedly, Wilson appeared behind both of them. He didn't move or speak: he just stood, hands in his lab coat pockets, and watched Doctor House.

Watched _Greg_.

House took Carnell Hall's pulse and checked his temperature, and then he bent to look into Carnell's eyes.

"What's that mean?" Mr Hall said. "I mean... what's happening?"

"You want the truth?" House said. "Or you want me to make something up to protect you? We think a drunk driver broke into his room."

"What's happening to my son!" Mr Hall said, angry.

"The truth is..." House paused. "I have no idea." He said to Cameron, "Discontinue the pralidoxime IV."

He looked across the room at Chase. His eyes should have passed over Doctor Wilson on the way, but he looked as if he was deliberately not seeing Wilson. He walked towards the door, deliberately, warily, walking wide of Wilson.

Not just wary, Chase realized: House was lamer than usual. His right leg couldn't bear very much weight, but he usually just walked unevenly; today he was almost lurching. He wouldn't be able to manage the stairs.

"Get Foreman," House said as Chase followed him.

"Just did," Chase said. He had paged Foreman to Diagnostics as soon as it was clear there would be another differential. He stopped by the elevators. Wilson caught up with them.

"You can take the stairs," Wilson told Chase.

Chase glanced at House. He was looking very like Greg: head down, both hands clutching his cane.

"So can you," Chase said.

The elevator arrived. Both Chase and Wilson entered on Greg's heels: Wilson was looking annoyed. Greg kept his head down and didn't look at either of them. He managed, nonetheless, to be ahead of them leaving the elevator, and kept walking, at a brisk lurch, down the hall to Diagnostics. Wilson left them to go into his own office: Greg had turned into House before he got to the whiteboard.

The DDX went fast: House dismissed them all on three separate errands, and they were at the elevator before Cameron asked "You guys going to join us for dinner Thursday?"

Cameron's pride in figuring out what had happened with that "Mom voice" on the phone was communicable. Her certainty that they could get included in whatever Wilson was setting up for Greg and Greg's parents was less communicable. Chase had a sneaking interest in what would go down, but no wish at all to get turned away by either House or Wilson.

"Umm... got to do my laundry."

Cameron shot him a look: "You're not curious?"

"I'm curious about crocs but I don't stick my head in their mouths." And Wilson was definitely a crocodile. If Cameron hadn't picked up on that, her hazard.

"I'm out too," Foreman said, and in response to a look from Cameron, "What? Greg's a freak! There's no virus that causes that, no DNA mutation. You're going to have one dinner with three people, sixty minutes. Most of it spent chewing and talking about the weather. Unless they say something like 'do you prefer the chardonnay or the merlot? And oh, we kept Greg locked in the closet for 17 years'" Cameron laughed "you're not going to learn anything."

Chase was smiling, though he didn't think it was funny. He didn't think it beyond the bounds of possibility. Maybe not locked in the closet. But they'd done something to Greg. Beyond letting him be sold.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

If anyone knew about House's parents, it would be Stacy Warner. Cameron had come up with an excuse to talk to her, but she wasn't in her office.

Doctor Cuddy was in her office, and Cameron had meant to talk to her about Wilson.

"Thank you for bringing that to my attention, Doctor Cameron," Cuddy said. "Can I ask why you felt it necessary to wait a day?"

"Chase already told you," Cameron realized.

"Foreman _and_ Chase, actually," Cuddy said. She smiled. "Why _did_ you wait a day?"

"Wilson showed up again in the patient's room," Cameron said. "He didn't say anything to us, but... He might have been reacting to House's parents calling."

"Greg's _parents?_" Cuddy frowned. "They called Doctor Wilson?"

"They called House. His mom did. He got the call in yesterday's differential. I think they want to see him. I thought you'd let him off evening clinic duty, but Carnell's not doing well - Doctor Cuddy, I wanted to ask Stacy Warner's advice - Can I lie to a patient to bring him in for a test?"

"Did Greg suggest you lie?"

He had, actually, in the middle of a succession of other less plausible methods of getting the reluctant new lawyer to the hospital.

"No," Cameron said, making herself sound surprised. "But I don't see how else to get him here."

"Try," Cuddy advised. "Or you'll get subpoenaed, and Greg will probably get whipped by the ethics committee."

"Well, we do need to diagnosis his friend."

"Take the test to the kid."

"There is no test, just a rash House wants to look at. Can I take House to look at it?"

"Yes, like that's going to happen," Cuddy said. "Figure out something you can tell the kid that will stand up in court, and you might even be able to keep Greg from being whipped."

Cameron must have let her revulsion show, because Cuddy said, sharply for her, "A court would invoke much steeper punishments than we do, and a court takes slave evidence under torture. If Greg's parents want to see him, I'd rather _not_ have Greg whipped before they do. And I'd appreciate your not making Greg's control more difficult by passing that on."

Cameron nodded, twice. She felt frozen inside. The red lines of blood on the back of House's t-shirt. They'd all three seen it. None of them had talked about it.

"Sit down," Cuddy said, still sharply.

Cameron took two steps back and sat down on one of the sofas. She heard, as if from a long way off, Cuddy say "Put your head down," and she waited.

Cuddy handed her a bottle of ginger ale. "Drink this, slowly. Doctor Cameron, do you know of any reason for Greg to be ... particularly upset? Right now?"

"Wilson gave him a guitar," Cameron said, without thinking about it. She still felt distant and cold. The soda tasted too sweet. "I thought it was nice of him. But - " Chase and Foreman thought she was being naive. Cameron wondered if she was.

"Greg is hospital equipment," Cuddy said. "Legally, that's all he is. You seemed to be handling working in Diagnostics quite well. If you need to make a change, let me know."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Foreman didn't like this. The perforation in Carnell's sigmoid colon might be repairable, but that it had happened at all meant the antibiotics weren't working. Fine, double the dose, add tygacil - _why_ weren't the antibiotics working?

Now the new lawyer with the rash was vomiting blood, and the paramedics were bringing him to PPTH. New symptom, or just another incurable patient?

Foreman didn't like being expected to run escort for House. But he evidently couldn't take the stairs with his leg suddenly worse overnight, and they certainly couldn't afford the waste of time if Greg got cornered in an elevator and was stupid enough not to say that he had a case. He was acting stupid. Not about the medical side. Not yet, anyway. But there was a reason why his leg was suddenly worse. Foreman didn't know what it was, but sudden onset, proximate cause: either some connection with his parents, or some connection with that expensive guitar Doctor Wilson had given him.

Downstairs in ER, Cameron stood waiting for them: House was ignoring them both, gloving up. A young man, feverish, sweating, was wheeled in on a gurney.

"You Taddy?" House asked.

The young man stared up at him blearily, "What?" quite evidently too out of it to realize the doctor was wearing a collar. Foreman had forgotten to get him to put one of his rolltops on. Dammit, why was it his problem, anyway?

From the tone of the "what?" Foreman took it that this was Taddy: so did Cameron, evidently, as she stopped the paramedics.

"Love the name," House said. "If I ever have a dog... take off his pants."

The young man's eyes drifted to Cameron, seeming to recognise her. "Hey."

"Don't talk to her, listen to me," House said. He grabbed a pair of scissors.

"He's vomited in excess of three units of blood," the paramedic said urgently, "he needs to be admitted before - "

"You wanted to be a doctor," House said, cutting up Taddy's pants, "maybe you should have buckled down a little more in high school."

The paramedic's eyes narrowed. "Blow me, facefuck," he said forcefully. "This kid needs to be admitted _now_."

"Excuse me," Cameron said, getting in between the paramedic and House.

"What are you doing?" Taddy asked fuzzily. House had his pants off and was feeling at the boy's groin.

"Exactly how close were you and Carnell?" House asked.

"Not so close."

"Spend a lot of time together in Jamaica? Share a room?"

"Wait, you don't think... look, he's no bottom. Nor am I."

"Not saying you're a bottom, I'm saying you had sex."

"Look, we're not even gay, we just hung out sometimes."

"Right," House said. "So you just flew him down to Jamaica because he won a contest." The rash was visible and horrifying. House had his nose practically in it.

"No," the kid said, with blurred earnestness, "he's in my frat, all right? Between school and wrestling, and going home every break to work in his father's junkyard, Carnell didn't have any time to hang out with anybody."

"It's not fungus," House said.

Cameron had been holding the paramedic at bay, and she sounded more than a little stressed. Foreman didn't suppose he would do a better job. "I already told you that."

"There's no pustules, it's not staph..." House lifted his head suddenly, and looked up from Taddy's groin to his face. "His dad's what?"

"His dad owns a scrap metal salvage yard. Carnell worked there during breaks."

House stared at Taddy for a long moment. Then he dropped the scissors on Taddy's chest, transferred his cane from left hand to right, and walked off, surprisingly briskly.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The janitor who came into the ward didn't walk like a slave and he didn't act like a janitor. He stood at the end of the bed and looked at Ken with pale blue eyes like a ghost's and said "You lied!"

"What are you talking about?" Ken demanded. He looked around for a nurse.

"Oh, yeah, problems with this family, probably need more specifics. You told us you owned a construction company, not a salvage yard."

That was so far out of left-field that Ken looked at the slave again. The door opened and the doctors who had been treating his son piled into the room, and they all looked at the slave: and Ken knew where he'd seen him before. Wearing a white coat and a roll-top that covered his collar. The slave was a doctor.

"I know the way things work, the better my job, the better my son gets treated," Ken said. People didn't believe a junkyard owner, a man who worked with his hands and his muscles, could have a pretty good income.

"Right," the slave said. "That's why I'm mad. Because we wasted all that filet mignon on you. Did your kid find anything _unusual_ the last time he worked for you?"

"No," Ken said. He couldn't figure this out. The other three doctors, smart kids all of them, were all staring at this janitor guy.

"Braided wire," the slave said, "metal weights, lead canister, maybe just a lid. Probably used it as a door stop or paperweight."

"Why would he want to - " Ken said, still bewildered, and then he remembered. The silvery-white weight. Like a fishing weight had been made of a silver alloy. Unusual. Carnell hadn't found it, Ken had, the last full day of winter break that they'd worked together. He stared at the slave with the ghost eyes. How could he have known?

"I gave him an early graduation gift," Ken said. He was beginning to understand what he had done. But it had been so small. "Old plumb I found. Looks like a fishing weight. Put it on a keychain so he'd always remember where he came from." His eyes were filling with tears. He stared down at Carnell's face. What had he done, how could he have known? It had been so small, so heavy, so shiny.

"Kept it where?" the slave was asking. "Kept it where?"

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Foreman and Cameron had paged Chase simultaneously, and must have headed up to the recovery room almost immediately: they all arrived there at about the same time, to see House, without white coat or roll-top, berating a free man. Oddly enough, the man looked too dazed to protest.

"Where are the kid's clothes?" House asked.

"In the bureau back in his regular room?" Cameron said. She sounded confused.

House looked at Chase, then at Foreman. "You two. Get it to radiology."

"His clothes?" Foreman sounded confused. Chase had just got it. There was one thing that fit all the symptoms: They just had never had a cause.

"The bureau," House said. "Don't open it."

Chase went. Foreman went with him. The bureau was easy to carry between the two of them.

House was waiting for them in Radiology with a Geiger counter. Chase and Foreman carried in the bureau and set it on the floor, where House pointed. "Now get out of here," House said. "This thing is radioactive."

Chase barely waited to be told. He found Cameron in the observation room. Foreman was watching as House opened up the top drawer in the bureau, pointing the Geiger counter at it. He took out a bag with a keychain attached to a zip, and said something to Foreman that got Foreman to leave the room as fast as Chase had. House put the bag down on the floor and looked at it, an unreadable expression on his face.

"The measurements weren't high enough to cause Central Nervous System damage," Foreman was still defending his failure to see the answer, which Chase would have found funny in another situation. A gift from Carnell's dad had killed him.

"It might not have caused nerve damage, but it definitely destroyed his immune system," Chase said.

"And caused tumours," House said.

"We don't know that," Cameron protested. "None of the MRIs showed anything."

"Do a PET scan," House advised. "Check his cervical spine. It's not going to be good news." He sat down at the conference table and reached for Carnell's chart, dismissing them with a nod.

Chase paused by Wilson's door. Cameron had been talking about "dinner plans" for tonight: it was entirely possible that Wilson had still worked up whatever surprise he had planned. It was also entirely possible that Wilson would bite Chase's head off if he tried to intervene. He glanced down the hall.

There was an elderly couple talking to the guard on duty. They were showing him a letter. He was nodding. Chase frowned. And decided to walk in the opposite direction. He supposed that Stephen must have had parents, too.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The hospital where Gregory worked was a handsome building. John was impressed. The Dean of Medicine listened to them, gave them a written pass, and told them how to find Diagnostics.

"Not Nephrology?" Blythe said. They were in the elevator.

"It's on the same floor," John said. He glanced down at the pass. "Infectious Diseases, that was the fellowship he was on when he." He stopped. He was used to finishing that sentence various ways, when he talked about it at all, which wasn't often. Especially not in front of Blythe. And Blythe was looking so openly happy.

The guard at the end of the hall pointed out to them where to find Diagnostics. All the other department names had a doctor's name attached to them. The doctor who'd left the note for them at their hotel was Oncology. Diagnostics was blank.

Gregory was sitting at a table in a glass-walled conference room. Blythe saw him only a moment or two before John: or knew what she was seeing. John was looking for his son. (Gregory _was_ his son. No one could say otherwise.) The man in the conference room was greyer, older: his hair clipped in a close slave-cut, his face shaved, wearing a plain short-sleeved t-shirt. Collared.

Blythe opened the door and was through it. Gregory looked up from the papers he was studying, and said, "Mom."

He didn't say anything to John. He got up, using a cane - he was handicapped now, but they let him have a cane - and hugged his mother. It was incongruous, the tall slave hugging Blythe: until he looked up and met John's eyes and in the half-hostile, half-wary blue stare John saw his son.

"It's great to see you," Gregory said, sounding uncomfortable.

"Oh, Greg," Blythe said. She sounded happier than John had heard her in years. "Don't lie!" She was teasing him: Gregory only looked even more uncomfortable.

"We came at a bad time, didn't we?" Blythe asked. She was still holding on to him.

John shifted on his feet. They had driven from Virginia because of a news item with a photograph that Blythe had been sure was their son: she was sure the name of the doctor at the hospital wasn't just coincidence, no matter how common a name "House" was. But he was awfully tempted, he could hear the sentence hanging behind his teeth, to say "Well, we'll just come back when things aren't so out of control."

He'd thought he remembered how much he and his son didn't get on. It was ten times weirder to be getting that remembered glare from a man who was collared.

"Doctor Wilson told us he'd made plans," John said.

"I asked him to cancel," Gregory said. He looked at John, not really meeting his eyes. "I'm dealing with kind of a complicated case right now, so..."

"You don't want to see us?" Blythe asked.

"Mom, don't make me feel guilty," Gregory said.

They'd always been able to do this. Things they said to each other made no sense. Gregory was smiling at her, and Blythe was almost laughing. "No no, of course not! Sorry."

"I've got a patient who's probably going to die of radiation poisoning."

The plan had been to take Gregory for a meal: in the hospital cafeteria, if they couldn't take him anywhere else. Changing plans at short notice wasn't good procedure.

"So that means you can't eat?" John said. He was doing his best to talk to his collared son normally. "Come on, let's grab a bite in the cafeteria."

"I'll buy you a ruben," Blythe said. She still hadn't let go of him: her hand was patting and gripping at Gregory's upper arm.

"Well, I guess I've got time for a sandwich," Gregory said, looking at her.

"Good!" Blythe said.

The door opened. A really beautiful young woman walked in, wearing a doctor's white coat.

Gregory said, briskly, "Yeah?"

"I just wanted to let you know that Carnell's prepped for surgery," the young said.

"Thank you," Gregory said dismissively.

She ignored his tone. She wasn't wearing a collar. She held out her hand to John: she had a firm grip for such a petite woman. "Hi, I'm Allison Cameron. I work with your son."

John nodded. It was almost funny to have her trying to make this like a normal social occasion. "Greg's told us all about you."

She gave John - and Gregory - a look of wide-eyed surprise. "Really?"

John looked over at his son. For once, he understood the expression on his face.

"New, huh?" he said to Gregory.

"Nope. Just gullible."

Allison was looking distressed. John said, courteously, "I'm sorry, I was just making fun of my son, not of you."

Blythe said, pleasantly. "We're just about to go get something to eat, would you care to join us?"

Allison's attention swung back to Gregory. She looked at him for a long instant. "You don't have a lot of time with your son. Maybe another time." She turned and walked out.

"Well," John said. "Let's go."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson watched them from the cafeteria entrance for a few minutes. They were sitting at one of the tables for four, by the wall. Although the cafeteria had a normal evening crowd, there was no one at any of the tables near them.

Two elderly people: a man who looked like a Marine even now, rigidly upright, the same blue eyes as Greg: a woman with a swift smile who looked kind. And their son, whom they'd allowed to be sold into slavery.

The Marines didn't allow any member of the Corps or their immediate family to be sold into slavery, no matter how long after active service was over. An adult child, no longer living at home, wouldn't have fallen under that protection... but his parents could have gone far into debt to protect him without themselves risking slavery.

And they hadn't. Twelve years ago, when Greg had been collared, what had they done?

Wilson watched them. What had they known?

The father stood up, saying something. He was heading towards the exit - no, to the men's room. The mother said something. Greg smiled. Even across the room, Wilson could see the smile looked suddenly, nakedly happy. Greg had never smiled like that at him.

Wilson wanted to cross the room, sit down at the table, demand a claim on Greg. He wanted it enough that it felt like a physical battle to turn his back and go away. He could afford to turn away: they couldn't afford to buy their son. No individual could.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cameron went looking for Greg well after the meal in the cafeteria had ended. Cuddy must have given him a night off clinic duty: he was sitting in the Diagnostics cubby-hole, on his leanback chair, his bad leg propped up. The guitar was leaning against the wall across from the chair.

"The father and the friend are responding well to treatment. Things aren't looking so good for Carnell," Cameron reported.

Greg looked away from the guitar, up at Cameron. "Thank you. For not eating."

Cameron took a breath. "It was none of my business."

Greg nodded. After a moment, he said, "Could you fetch that - "

He pointed. Cameron picked up the guitar. It was lighter than she'd expected. She handed it to him. He settled it against him, and began to play - scales, Cameron realised; not a tune. His face was closed-off and tired.

Cameron closed the door behind her.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The Carnell kid was a formal justification for making sure the pharmacy at the clinic would issue Greg his oxycontin even though he wouldn't be doing a full clinic shift.

Ken Hall was waiting for news of his son's surgery, and undergoing what radiation therapy he'd need from handling that little lump of uranium. Wilson bought him a cup of coffee and listened to him tell stories about cold pancakes in lunchboxes until Chase came back from observing surgery.

"Hey," Ken said. "So... how is he?"

"Well," Chase said. "the surgeon has removed the tumor without damaging the spinal cord, but the infection has caused another intestinal perforation. We stopped the bleeding, but his white count keeps falling."

"Okay..." Ken looked helplessly from Chase to Wilson. "So what now? Another drug? Antibiotics? What?"

"I'm sorry," Chase said gently. "The reality is, no matter what we give him, it's unlikely he's going to be able to fight off the infections."

Ken looked again at Wilson. He didn't look anything like the white-haired blue-eyed Marine down in the cafeteria, but Wilson still couldn't meet his eyes. He looked down at the floor.

After a long moment, Ken said, helplessly, "Okay, okay."

Wilson stayed: he helped Ken through to the ward it was unlikely Carnell would ever leave alive. He found Ken a jug of water to help with dry mouth, and left the ward to let them have a final conversation in some privacy.

Greg was there. Wilson wasn't sure how long he had been there when he first noticed him: Greg was watching father and son through the window. He didn't look at Wilson: he walked away when Ken kissed Carnell's hand.

Wilson went back to his own office. He went out on to the balcony. He had thought about crossing the wall to check out Greg in his own office, but he heard through the window the sound of guitar music.

No tune that Wilson could identify. Just sets of scales. But he could see Greg in his mind's eye, perhaps sitting in his Eames chair, holding the guitar, reminding himself how to play it.

He'd have Greg. Soon.

_*tbc*_


	6. Spin

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". Assuming I can keep it up, there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

**2.06 Spin**

Friday lunchtime, Wilson walked into the Diagnostics conference room. Greg was the only one there. He looked up, briefly, from the files he was going through, and back down, his shoulders hunching.

"Hey," Wilson said.

Greg didn't look up. Wilson put the brown bag down on the conference table. "I'm sorry about Carnell," he said.

"Who...?" Greg did look up, and he looked bewildered.

"Your patient," Wilson said, less patiently. "He died early this morning."

"Oh. Him." Greg nodded.

"Lunch," Wilson said, and pushed the brown bag across the table to Greg. Sandwich, piece of fruit, bag of chips, cup of coffee.

Greg didn't move. "Got another patient for me?"

"No, this is lunch. I'm sure it was covered in one of my classes at medical school, the difference between a light midday meal and a patient." Wilson paused. "I hadn't realized you were so keen on due process."

"I live by it," Greg said. He still didn't move. "Love it. Obviously."

"You complained about my 'high-handed behavior' to Doctor Cuddy - "

Greg's eyes widened and his head jerked back. His right hand moved, abruptly, from the table.

Wilson stopped speaking, and watched him. Greg stared back. Only for a moment: then he broke the gaze and looked down into the paper bag, exploring the contents left-handed. Apple, tortilla chips, wholewheat sandwich, coffee: Wilson had seen it bagged. Greg took out the sandwich and bit into it. "Thanks," he said, through a full mouth.

"You didn't go to the Dean, did you?" Wilson said, processing Greg's genuine surprise.

"Yeah, sure, we have confidential chats all the time," Greg said, taking another huge bite of the sandwich.

"So who did?"

"About what?" Greg asked. He stared at Wilson. "Oh," he said, and thought about it. "Was that what you were doing?"

"What?"

"Wednesday night," Greg said. "You were pissy."

He announced the word as if it were a diagnosis, and went back to chewing on his sandwich.

"I was angry with you," Wilson stuck to the point.

"Pissy!" Greg said.

"I shouldn't have tried to pull you up off the floor: I should have given you your cane back when you asked for it. I apologize."

Greg put the unfinished sandwich back in the bag. He seemed to be reacting on instinct, rather than just drop the food. He reached for his cane and stood up, backing away from the table.

"What do you want?"

"I'm going to tag you," Wilson said. "Not right now, but soon. I just want you to be clear, I'm not tagging you as a punishment, I don't want to hurt you - I don't plan on hurting you."

_You're a sadist._ Greg's mouth moved: he almost said the words out loud.

"I'm not sadistic," Wilson said. He could be sure of that. Yes, he got that weird sexual thrill out of seeing Greg in pain. But when he'd tried to pull Greg up from the floor and heard him howl and seen his leg collapse, he'd gone for help, he hadn't tried to ... use him, sexually. (Even if the sight of Greg on the floor, writhing in pain, had triggered that deep complex pleasure in him: he hadn't _acted_ on it. He could control this thing. There would be plenty of opportunities to indulge himself without deliberately hurting Greg.)

"I'm going to tag you, and take care of you. Feed you. You won't need to eat from the slave canteen. You'll get to come back to my place at least some of the time. I'll make sure you get your meds, regular doses, and I'll do my best to keep you on a sensible clinic schedule - I don't believe you should need to be working two full shifts a day, and I'll sort that out once I have you tagged."

Greg was still standing in the middle of the room, his hands locked on the handle of his cane, staring at Wilson like the words were locking a chain round his neck. He didn't say anything.

"You don't need to say anything," Wilson said, since it didn't look like Greg was going to. "I just wanted to let you know." He nodded. "You can finish your lunch now."

Greg swallowed. He came back to the table and sat down. He pulled out the bag of chips, opened it, and stuffed a handful into his mouth. "Be simpler if you just took me to the cafeteria," he said. He tilted his head, examining Wilson. "You don't need to tag me to do that."

"That's true," Wilson said. "But you needed to hear that in private, didn't you?"

"Hell, Chase and Foreman probably have a betting pool going on for when you're going to tag me," Greg said, with brittle defiance. "Let me get in on the action, we could scoop the pool, just let me know."

"I don't think so," Wilson said, amused. "Don't worry about it. I'm going to take care of you." He nodded to the brown bag lunch. "Including making sure you get proper meals."

He left. Greg evidently hadn't thought of a retort by the time Wilson closed the door.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

_It is pointed out that the changes in the nervous system are not of a truly degenerative type but are largely due to an impairment of myelin which could be caused by a widespread and intermittent ischaemia..._

Whenever Stacy wasn't around, which was most of the time, Mark read articles on porphyria. Most of them would have needed a medical dictionary to fully understand, and he didn't own one (Stacy owned three, two of them antiques, all of them on her shelves at home) and that wasn't completely the point, anyway.

His therapist had asked him what was the point, and Mark had tried to find a few reasons that sounded sensible, but they didn't wholly convince him. Or his therapist.

He grasped that he was unlucky to be wheelchair-bound: acute intermittent porphyria didn't often cause nerve damage. (The physical therapist told him that he would be able to move himself from the chair and he could wipe his own butt: he could feel his legs, more or less, he just couldn't move them. He probably would, eventually, as treatment continued, but no one could say when that would be.)

What he couldn't grasp was any gratitude to Greg. And a lot of that had to do with one of the times he had been in that hospital room, with doctors coming in and out, and Stacy standing beside him. The slave had stood in the door of his room, and looked at Stacy: and Mark had seen her look back.

That hadn't been paranoia: he'd been relatively stable at that point. He'd seen Greg and Stacy look at each other. Just look. And then Stacy had said "He just wants to talk to me" and then it had descended into another pointless quarrel.

He didn't want to quarrel with Stacy. He never wanted to quarrel with Stacy.

He hadn't ever been able to understand why Stacy had wanted to be with a slave. But now he couldn't figure out why Stacy had wanted to be with _this_ slave. And if this slave was who she'd wanted, then, why she wanted Mark, now.

He read porphyria articles in medical journals and heard the slave's deep, sarcastic voice in his head, and tried to think of him as the medical genius who had saved him from ending up a wasted pile of junk like the people in the terminal pictures.

He didn't like being wheeled around the hospital. It was sort of okay with Stacy. At least, it was great when Stacy made time to show up, met him for lunch or coffee, instead of just bringing him in at the start of the day and meeting him again at the end of the day. His hands and arms weren't yet strong enough, he wasn't yet skilled enough, to keep up with someone at normal walking pace: either he let Stacy push him or he slowed her up and she'd be even less likely to make time for him in her working day. So letting her push him was sort of okay.

They had lunch together most days. Last week Stacy had been at a two-day conference in Baltimore. Mark had to come back to the hospital full-time for those two days, because he wasn't yet fit to stay home on his own, and he'd _said_ he wasn't happy about the idea of a live-in nurse. He wasn't. (The cheapest solution to that, if you were as rich as Stacy, was to buy someone to be the full-time nurse, and re-sell them again when the need was over. He hadn't even wanted to _discuss_ why he didn't want Stacy to do that.) He was even less happy about being put into the hospital for full-time care. Even knowing this was residual paranoia, he kept worrying, the whole two days Stacy was away, that she wouldn't be coming back: that this was going to be his life from now on.

Lunch wasn't great. Mark finished most of his sandwich and some of the crappy salad they dressed it up in. He didn't try the dessert. Stacy ate half of hers, looking at him continually.

"Let's go," she said finally.

"Where?"

"There's a coffee stand outside. Let's go sit outside and ... drink coffee."

Stacy wanted a cigarette. Mark knew this instantly. She didn't like sitting outdoors. But if they were outside, she could walk away from Mark for a few minutes - any excuse - and smoke. So far, he'd pretended he hadn't noticed she'd taken up cigarettes again. She'd smoked occasionally when she was with the slave. "Occasionally", she said, had meant usually two a day, sometimes more but rarely, but she'd quit when she moved. Completely. Claimed she didn't miss them.

Claimed she didn't miss the slave.

Mark picked up his tray, stacked it with Stacy's. "I can do that," Stacy said.

"I can bus my own tray," Mark said, and wished he hadn't: it sounded stupidly boastful, like a little kid, "I can bus my own tray, mom, I can tie my own shoelaces..." Except he couldn't, yet, because he couldn't manoever around legs that couldn't feel. And he could bus his own tray in the sense that Stacy could wheel him over to where the used trays were stacked.

They both spotted the slave at the same moment: Mark had never seen him in the cafeteria before. He was sitting with another doctor. Mark glanced up at Stacy. The obvious route out took them directly past the slave.

Stacy gave him a _can't-be-helped_ grin. "Trouble at eleven o'clock," she said quietly, and set off. She even paused by their table.

"Hi Doctor... Greg."

The other doctor looked up from his plate, seeming faintly embarrassed. "Hi Ms Warner. Mr Warner."

Greg didn't say anything in greeting. He picked up his fork, reached out to the untouched dessert plate on Mark's tray, and scooped off a mouthful of cake. He swallowed and grinned, showing most of his teeth. "When you save someone's life, they owe you forever."

His voice was as deep and sarcastic as Mark remembered it.

"You're right," Mark heard himself say. "Take Stacy. Oh wait, she'd probably just leave you all over again."

"How's your recovery going?" Greg asked. "Gotten around to the small muscles yet?"

"It's not the size of the muscle," Mark retorted, "it's where you get to put it." That was too much hanging out with high school kids, he realized as his brain caught up with his mouth.

"My goodness," Stacy said, in the most fake voice, "It's like watching Oscar Wilde and Noel Coward in the third grade. Excuse us." She started wheeling Mark onward again, without waiting for a signal: he caught her exchanging looks with the other doctor, as if they were really dealing with a pair of third grade kids.

When he got back to his PT that afternoon, wheelchair use had a new priority: he never wanted Stacy to be able to push him away like that again.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson looked at Greg. "Are you trying to convince me that taking you for lunch in the cafeteria was a bad idea?" he asked.

"Aw, I'll be good," Greg said. He grinned at Wilson - the same shit-eating grin he'd given Mark Warner, and leaned a little closer. "You know the big advantage for me in eating here?"

"Better food?"

"Salad's crap," Greg dismissed. "You can't do a thing to me in public that wouldn't ruin your image. And Mark can't do a thing to me without pissing off Stacy. And Stacy's not going to do anything to me no matter how angry she gets. What's Mark doing here anyway? He's got physio Tuesdays and Fridays. Last week he was here full-time because Stacy was in Baltimore."

"What do you care?" Wilson asked. "You solved the problem. He's not your patient. He'll have whatever kind of therapy he needs to deal with his handicap."

"Yeah. Mark gets therapy, I get a cane."

"You got extensive physio, I've seen the records." It was an impressive example of how a carefully planned program of physio which the recipient was not allowed to dodge or slack off, could work to get even someone so crippled back on to his feet. "Why did they let you use your cane in your right hand?" Wilson asked. There was probably something about it in the records, but he hadn't tried to read all the phyio in detail. "Side opposite your injured leg would have made more sense."

"I'm right-handed," Greg said. "They kept trying to make me use my cane in my left hand, and I kept falling over. I couldn't do it. Eventually they just let me use my cane in my dominant hand." He grinned again, annoyingly. "Stacy looked pissy. I bet Mark's still crippled where it counts."

"I don't care," Wilson said.

"Don't care was made to care," Greg sing-songed.

"I could take your cane away," Wilson said. It was hooked over the table, within easy reach.

Greg's right hand twitched, as if he wanted to grab hold of it, but he turned his hand palm down flat gainst the table and went on grinning at Wilson. "You could. Then everyone sees me staggering out of the cafeteria, knocking against tables, maybe even falling over. The guards grab me, take me down to the basement. What comes out is that you took my cane away."

"So again - " Wilson was, despite himself, amused and trying very hard not to show it " - why should I take you for lunch _here_, when I can deal with you more effectively in my office?" He tried to put a stern ring on "deal with you more effectively", but he was surprised when Greg stopped smiling.

"You can do pretty much anything you like to me," Greg said. "I know it. You know it. You like playing games. This is one of them. I can't stop you."

"Did you like playing games with Stacy?"

"Why don't you ask her?" Greg flashed back.

Wilson considered that. "Okay." He took pity on Greg, who was actually looking worried, and added "I won't ask Stacy about you. How's your biker?"

Greg looked startled, but switched tracks with ease. "Pumped an air bubble into a vein in his lung."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Stacy knew exactly when House had entered the cafeteria. But she hadn't looked towards him. Or, really, listened to him.

He was sitting with the head of oncology - the handsome doctor who'd bought her tea, who'd asked her out for a drink - she still, sometimes, wished she'd said yes. Good: that should mean no one else would bother him.

Consciously not looking over at him, focussing on Mark - she _wanted_ to focus on Mark - made her want a cigarette.

She didn't have to take the job of investigating the Diagnostics department for the leak about their famous patient. But she told herself, this wasn't like last time: there was no emotional involvement. House wouldn't have been stupid enough to be the source, and it didn't matter who else was.

She hadn't had a cigarette at lunchtime. Nicotine itch was getting under her skin. Nothing else.

Stacy was conscious of Cuddy keeping an eye on her as they headed towards Diagnostics together: she kept her face impassive.

"Congratulations, Chase," House was saying as they opened the door, "It's cancer. Clean him up and let Oncology have him, it's their party now."

"You've got a leak. The press is all over the Jeff Forster story," Cuddy announced, as they had planned: Stacy looked at the faces, also as they had planned.

No one reacted guiltily. Stacy said, still watching them, "On the off-chance that one of you was stupid enough to call from your own office, I'm pulling your phone records, including your cell phones."

Behind them, the door opened, and the head of oncology came in. He said, without other greeting, "He doesn't have cancer. Biopsy shows he's got Pure Red Cell Aphasia."

The black doctor said, almost in the same moment, "I assume if I point out the fact that you have no right to do that, you'll interpret that as a sign of guilt?"

The head of oncology looked thoroughly taken aback, and Stacy realized she couldn't remember his name. She ought to be able to, but it was a perennial weakness: she could remember faces but not names, or not the necessary link.

The blond doctor said incredulously, "There's no way PRCA could manifest so suddenly."

"Unless it's drug-induced." the woman doctor said. "He's lying about not being on EPO?"

"Why would he lie?" House said. He was standing by the whiteboard, eyeing her, looking - to her eyes at least - amused by the situation: Stacy badly wanted to ask the head of oncology to back off for a minute while she discussed the leak with the Diagnostics department alone, but without being able to remember his name she had no way to do so politely. House glanced past her at the head of oncology. "Doctor Wilson's chatty," he said. "Plus he's got two ex-wives to support and divorce bills to pay. You want me to tell him he's fired?"

"Doctor Wilson," Stacy said politely, "we need to discuss this issue of the leak - "

"Wilson's a board member," Cuddy said. "This will come up at the next meeting anyway."

"People lie for thousands of reasons, but there's always a reason," House said.

"Philosophically interesting, medically irrelevant," the black doctor said.

"Unless he's not lying," House said.

"Until we figure out who's behind this, I'll be sitting with the Diagnostics department," Stacy said.

That hit House. He looked at Cuddy, looked at Wilson - and looked down at his feet. He wasn't arguing. Stacy could have dealt with it better if he had argued. He just stood by the whiteboard with bent head, silent.

"Cameron," Doctor Wilson said.

That was the woman. She looked up - she really was very lovely - and said "I'm not the leak."

"Somebody once told me," Stacy said, "that everybody lies." She got no reaction from House, though the black and blond doctors (she would have to memorise their names) looked at each other. "Since you're the only people who know he has cancer - "

That got House's attention. His head lifted. "He doesn't have cancer."

"The point is," Cuddy said, her voice very hard and chill, "you're his medical team. Someone leaked his story. He's threatening to sue."

House was looking across the room, at Stacy, but she knew he wasn't seeing her. "Why would Cameron leak cancer?" he asked out loud. "How does cancer make the guy look bad?" He paused. His eyes were wide. He didn't say anything for what felt like a long time, and Stacy knew she'd missed him. "He's on EPO," House said suddenly, and lurched off, limping at speed, without asking for leave to go or saying goodbye.

He left them there, as Stacy remembered so many other departures, all staring at each other and not sure what to say: as if House had taken all the words with him.

The black doctor picked up a rolltop - the sort House had worn when he was seeing patients, it concealed his collar if you weren't looking for it - that had been thrown over a chair. Muttering something to himself, he went out after House.

The blond doctor stood up. He handed Stacy his phone. "I'm not the leak, and you're welcome to check my phone records." He walked out after them.

Cameron stood up. "I didn't leak any information about our patient, to the Press or anywhere else," she said steadily. She handed her phone to Stacy. "Foreman wouldn't have done it either."

"You still need to sit in," Cuddy said, uncharacteristically. "Even if they're meeting somewhere else." She made a gesture at the doorway.

"I'll need to pull the phone records," Stacy said, puzzled. The plan had been for her to stay in the Diagnostics department for long enough to make sure she had evidence enough either to show that no member of staff had breached confidentiality, or to identify who had.

"Doctor Wilson," Cuddy said, looking away from Stacy, "a word?"

Wilson went out with Cuddy. Stacy was alone in the conference room. She went to the cubbyhole door where House had slept when he wasn't with her, and turned back from it. _Clean break._ It was, besides, unfair to examine his territory when he wasn't there. She sat down at the desk with the phone and put the two fellows' phones in front of her. Time to do some work.

The phone records were clear for the Diagnostics phone, for the cellphones that belonged to Cameron and the blond doctor. Chase. She told herself to remember the name and knew she wouldn't. For formality, she'd need to check the black doctor's - Doctor Mandinka, no, that had been a joke, his name was... She reached across to check the piles of mail. Foreman. Eric Foreman. She'd need to check Foreman's phone, but he didn't come across as someone who would do a fool thing like that from his own phone.

She logged on to the system and used her authorization to look at the Diagnostics e-mail records. Cameron and Chase each had a handful of personal contacts on their work e-mail, none contacted within the time limits of the leak: Foreman, surprisingly, had none - or all his personal relationships were with other medical staff.

House's e-mail account had a stack of unanswered e-mails, all with e-mail addresses from other hospitals: all the e-mails he had sent were responses to consults, and from the variations in writing style at least two of his fellows were doing them for him some of the time. Stacy paused, her hands off the keyboard momentarily. House had e-mail access so that he could respond to consults, he wasn't allowed to use it for any other purpose: but it was nearly impossible to restrict his Internet access, because no one could say in advance what was and wasn't necessary for him to research. And he'd used it to set up temporary e-mail accounts, now and again, to e-mail people when he wanted to have a conversation about something other than a professional consult. Stacy's brief didn't include searching for temporary accounts, because if the leak had happened that way it would take a more extensive search of House's hard drive than Stacy was currently equipped for. And in any case... Stacy didn't believe House was the source.

The temptation to search for more, to find out what House's personal life was these days, wasn't professional. Stacy shut down her access, and looked up: House was standing by the table, watching her. She hadn't heard him come in. She hadn't been _aware_ of his coming in.

"If you're going to search my room," House said, "you can wait ten minutes."

"Why?" Stacy was startled.

House barely smiled. "If I tell you I want to take two things out of the room before you search it, how much of a lawyer are you going to be about it?"

"You're not the leak," Stacy said. "Why do you need to take anything out of the room?"

"If you know I'm not the leak, why do you need to search my room?" House asked, and then grimaced, as if he had got the answer to his question before Stacy said it. "You're going to find stuff I'm not supposed to have. Let me take it out before you see it and have to get rid of it."

Stacy looked at him. "Will you give me your word you're not the leak?"

House closed his eyes, briefly. Not a blink, Stacy thought, watching: a flinch. She stood up. House opened his eyes again, and studied her. "No," he said. "I'm hospital equipment. You can't ask me to give my word for anything. If you want evidence from me, you know how to get it." He lifted his chin.

"I'm trying to _protect_ you," Stacy exploded in exasperation. "Cuddy and I may be the only people stopping you from jumping off a cliff just to prove that you - "

House's stare had changed in quality as she shouted. His brittle look had relaxed: he was really smiling when he interrupted her. "You're pissy."

"I am angry!" Stacy snapped.

"Pissy. You only get pissy when you're frustrated."

"Shut up!"

House gave her that smooth and almost meek look with which he had taken direction in public for five years. "Okay, I'm wrong."

"Oh, damn you, House!" Stacy sat down. House pulled out a chair from the conference table, and sat down facing her.

"The first two years I was here," House said, "I spent so much time and energy fighting for them to see me as more than hospital equipment. Even if the hospital owned me, I wanted the staff to see me as a doctor who wore a collar, not as medical equipment. Then you tagged me, and for years it didn't feel that I had to fight about it - you never used to think of me as hospital machinery. And then you left. And the infarction crippled my leg. And I stopped fighting." He slowed down. "And I found out," he added, at thoughtful length, "that all it takes is to stop fighting, and soon it's easier just to think of yourself as a kind of MRI machine that can walk and talk." He paused. "Half-walk."

"House - "

"You ditched me for Mark," House said. He pushed himself to his feet. "You were right. I wanted to tell you that."

"House," Stacy said. "I wanted - "

House looked at her. She shook her head. "No. I - have a good thing with Mark. I'm sorry." Her eyes were stinging with tears: House looked blurred through them. "My therapist tells me it gets better."

"And none of this has anything to do with me," House said. He was standing, ready to go.

"No, nothing," Stacy said, not expecting him to believe her, not saying it for him to believe her. "Let it go."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The local Thai restaurant still delivered. The fragrant-savoury bag of food was sitting on the coffee table in Wilson's office. Greg was due down at the clinic in an hour and a half, and Wilson wasn't planning to interfere with that schedule for tonight.

"I need you in my office, briefly, when you go off shift," Wilson told the security guard. He glanced at the name strip on his shirt: N. CASTLE. "If you don't mind?"

"Not at all, Doctor Wilson," Castle said.

Wilson went out on to the balcony, and clambered over the low wall. Both the conference room and the cubbyhole were empty. Wilson sat down on the Eames chair to wait.

After ten minutes, he was glancing at his watch, annoyed. Greg's case was done, he had no place else to be but the Diagnostics department: where had he got to? Castle would be going off shift in five minutes.

Wilson went back to his office. He made it in time to be standing by his desk when Castle knocked on the door.

"Thanks," Wilson said. "Do you have any idea where - " he hesitated " - the Diagnostics slave should be, this time of day?"

Castle looked surprised. "He went past me to the stairway just before you spoke to me. If I'd known you wanted him I would have stopped him."

"Which way did he go?"

"The roof," Castle said automatically. "He often - " He stopped. "No. He went downstairs, not up. He'll be in the slave canteen. I'll page the security there and have them bring him up. Is it urgent?"

Wilson shook his head. Castle pulled out his pager and sent a message. He got an answer which made him frown. "Security in the canteen say they haven't seen him. They wouldn't have been concerned, he often skips meals there."

"He's gone missing?"

"Well, Doctor Wilson, if you want the slave and we can't locate him immediately, technically he has gone missing. Should I instigate a security search?"

Wilson became aware that Castle was deliberately not looking at the bag of Thai food, though he must have been able to smell it.

"No," Wilson said. It had been no part of his plan to have Greg delivered to him for tagging by security staff. He walked towards the door, Castle following him. "I needed to have a word with him about something, but I expect that - "

He opened the door: Greg was limping along the hall. Castle stepped out into the hall and took hold of Greg's arm. "Doctor Wilson wants to see you, his office," he said.

Greg was holding a file under his arm. He flinched from Castle's hand, he looked at Wilson. "Let me put this file away."

The security guard now on duty at the end of the hall came towards them. Wilson glanced at him. D. Perez. There was no one else about.

"Okay, just stand there, Greg," Wilson said. "Castle, Perez, could you witness this?" He got his wallet out, and pulled out the tag.

Castle put his hands on Greg's shoulders. "Get down on your knees," he said. Perez reached out to take Greg's cane away.

"No," Wilson said. "Stand still, Greg," he said, though Greg hadn't moved, except to clutch the file closer to his side. Wilson had to reach up to clip on the tag, but there was no need to make Greg kneel to do it.

"Doctor Cuddy has given permission for me to tag you," Wilson told him, for the guards' ears. "You're entitled to refuse any sexual contact from anyone but myself: any disciplinary matter, any damage done to you or by you will be reported to me as well as to Doctor Cuddy. You're in my care: my responsibility." He let go of the tag.

Greg stood still, staring at Wilson with wide eyes, the white showing all round the blue.

"Can I put this file away?" he asked again, his voice small and flat.

Perez snickered. Wilson glanced at him.

"Sure," Wilson said. He nodded to the guards. "Thank you." He handed each of them a 20. "Have a drink on me."

Perez nodded his thanks, and walked back to the security position at the end of the hall. Castle stayed a moment, tucking the bill into his own wallet, eyeing Greg. "Congratulations, Doctor Wilson," he said, putting his wallet away, and left.

"Come on through to my office," Wilson said. "I have Thai food."

_tbc_


	7. Hunting

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

**2.07 Hunting**

Wilson had checked the Diagnostics caseload: they had no new patients. He waited for the last of the fellows (Chase, today) to leave, shortly before six, and went through. Greg was sitting in the Eames chair reading a medical journal, slightly too close to his eyes to be comfortable. He slid it down from his face when Wilson walked in, and looked at him, and said nothing. Greg was wearing a rolltop - he had been wearing one, Wilson thought, all day.

"You're coming back to the hotel with me for tonight," Wilson said. He held out his hand with the leash in it. "Get that off," he flicked a finger at the rolltop. "I'll buy you a warm coat for out of doors."

Greg put down the journal flat on one of the stack of journals. He used his hands to move his right leg off the footstool. "Do I get my oxycontin?"

"Got it," Wilson said. He patted his pocket, though the container with the oxycontin pills was in his briefcase.

"Can I bring this?" Greg asked. He put his hand out on the journal he was reading.

"If you want," Wilson said.

Greg sat still on the edge of the chair, looking up at Wilson. "You don't have to leash me," he said.

"I'm taking you off hospital grounds," Wilson pointed out.

"Cripple here," Greg said. "If I try to run away, what are you going to do? Slow down to give me a fair start?"

"You're supposed to be leashed and manacled whenever you're taken outside PPTH property," Wilson said.

Greg shrugged. "I won't run away. I can't _run_ away. Hospital car park to hotel car park, what do you think the risk is?"

At length Wilson nodded. He pocketed the leash. "Take your rolltop off," he said. He wanted the collar to be visible, and easy to snag with the leash if he had to. The silvery tag with his name on was knocked askew by Greg's removal: Wilson reached out smiling and straightened it with a finger-tip.

Greg walked into the hotel room and stood by the bed clutching the journals to his chest as Wilson took his coat and jacket off, hung them up, and unknotted his tie. "What do you want to eat? Chinese? I'll order for delivery in about an hour, okay?" He placed a hand on Greg's chest and gave a small push. "Sit down. Relax. Read if you want to. Watch TV, if you like. I'm not going to hurt you." He could tell by the stress around Greg's eyes and the tension in his muscles that Greg was already in pain, which would continue till he got his second oxycontin dose of the day. He planned to spend the next couple of hours just enjoying Greg: he had promised himself to make no sexual moves until after Greg's oxycontin kicked in. That small, warm glow at the pit of his stomach was already alight.

"Do you need to use the bathroom?" Wilson asked. Greg shook his head. He was sitting down on the end of the bed, opening up the journal he had been reading. Wilson made sure his room door was locked, and went into the bathroom himself.

When he opened the door again, Greg was speaking. On the phone, Wilson realised. He paused, startled, doubly-startled that Greg didn't guiltily break off the call: perhaps he was that confident that Wilson wouldn't punish him for it.

"Yes, he's here," Greg said. "I'm calling from his hotel bedroom, you can check by calling back - room 413, Hyatt-Homewood, I don't know the address, it's about five minutes by car - "

Wilson took the phone away from him. "Who the hell are you talking to?" he said: his voice faded away as he recognized Julie's voice.

"James!" Julie squawked. She sounded as stunned as he felt. "James, this man on the phone, he says he's a slave at your hospital and you're going to _fuck_ him - " Her voice went high on the eff-word, Julie never used that kind of language normally. "James, I have friends coming round in less than an hour, this man calls me up and starts telling me things you want to - to do to him - James, I have to see you, you have to tell me this isn't true, who _is_ this - why did you give him my number?"

"Julie," Wilson said. "Calm down. It's all right." It was not all right. He was sitting down on the bed now, horrified at how "all right" it was not. "He is a slave at the hospital, the Diagnostics slave we'd talked about? I didn't give him my - your home number, he must have found it on my cellphone. Julie, please - " He took a deep breath.

"I have to _see_ you, James!" Julie said desperately. Behind him, Wilson heard Greg roll off the bed on the other side and a familar, limping step heading towards the door into the hall.

"Julie," Wilson said. "Please. Do this for me. Sit down. Five minutes. Have something to drink, breathe - I'll call. In five. I have to deal with Greg - with the slave _right now_." He did not wait to hear if she answered him: he was already on his feet, throwing the phone down on to the bed, and lunged for Greg, who was almost at the room door. Greg turned, lifting his cane. Wilson hesitated: Greg's back was against the door, he was holding his cane like a weapon, and Wilson realized that if he just went for Greg as he was tempted to do, Greg might actually, conceivably,_ hurt_ him.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Unbelievably, Greg gave him a shit-eating grin. "Just giving you and the little wifey some privacy. I'll go sit in the hall."

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"I just rang your wife and let her know what your plans are for tonight." Greg was still grinning. "Figured she'd want to know."

Wilson stood still, staring at Greg, his heart hammering in his chest. "Are you _insane_? Do you know what I could _do_ to you for this? You made an obscene phone call to _my wife_."

"Relax," Greg said. "I hear she's getting a divorce."

"Are you _insane_?" Wilson shouted.

Greg's grin had faded. He was still holding the cane in front of him, but his arms dropped and he just shrugged, tiredly. "How would I know? You can't kill me. You can beat me up but if the bruises are visible tomorrow morning Cuddy's going to want to know why. You have to deliver me to the clinic tomorrow morning able to work, or they're going to want to know why. You can withhold oxycontin till tomorrow morning and get off on my screams, but you can do that anyway, any time you feel like it. How do you feel now, Doctor Wilson? Like you don't know what's going to happen next but whatever it is, it's going to be a complete steaming crapload of crap?"

Wilson snarled "Yes!"

"Good," Greg said. He sat down. It looked as if his feet had slid out from underneath him, but he eased himself down the door using his hands and his cane. and sat there, head tilted back, looking up at Wilson. "So you tell me, does it feel like you're insane for wanting to hurt me as much as I just hurt you?"

Before Wilson could even begin to think of an answer, his cellphone rang. It was Julie.

"Just sit there," Wilson said. "Just sit there and don't even _think_ about moving or saying anything or I - I - I'll - " He thumbed to accept the call. "Julie? I am so sorry, I cannot apologise _enough_ - "

The next fifteen minutes or so were the least pleasant of their marriage. Wilson repeatedly apologised, offered fragments of a not wholly untruthful explanation (he'd needed to talk with the Diagnostics slave and had wanted something to eat, and so he'd taken him back to his hotel bedroom, he hadn't realised how out of control the slave was or he would never have left him able to use the phone) and refused to come round to their home - to _Julie's_ home - to explain and apologise in person: both their lawyers had said any such one-on-one meetings were a bad idea. He was very sorry. Yes, the slave would be punished for it. Yes, he would be more careful in future. Yes, he was really very sorry that Julie had been subjected to that kind of abuse. And then Julie stopped being angry, and just started to cry, and all Wilson had to do was murmur anodyne, noncommittal comfort.

He hadn't always hated hearing Julie cry. Not, he realised, listening to her sob, because he didn't like the idea of her pain. She had cried a lot, the first six months he had known her, and he hadn't minded that: she had cried on his shoulder, he had comforted her, and eventually - he could hardly remember how - the comforting had become sexual. And he was comforting her now, but he did not think that even if he were holding her, he would want her sexually. He didn't want to hurt her. He just wanted her to stop crying and get off the phone.

He still wanted Greg. He was furious with him. But he still wanted him.

He could probably find someone on the hotel staff, who for a small fee would provide a judicial-quality whipping to a misbehaving slave. Ten lashes. Even fifteen. He hadn't looked through the directory of hotel services here, but the option was usually there, discreetly tucked under household management.

He could have Greg whipped. He thought that just as Julie sobbed, thought about watching Greg stripped and the lashes striking his bare back. He was getting a hard-on just thinking about it, shifting uncomfortably to re-settle his hardening dick. Greg was still sitting with his back against the door, his eyes fixed on Wilson.

He wanted Greg stretched on the bed, belly down, fresh welts on his back for Wilson to fondle, feeling Greg shivering and flinching underneath him. He wanted to fuck him like that.

Through in their home, from the other end of the phone, Wilson heard their doorbell chime. Julie had hardly been crying at all for the past five minutes, but Wilson knew it would still be obvious on her face.

"Julie? If you need to talk, once your friends have gone, just call me. I'm so sorry this happened."

"Thank you," Julie said. She must be walking towards the door. "Yes - thanks - " At last, blessedly, the phone disconnected. Wilson sighed and tucked away his own cellphone. He glanced at his watch. He had been listening to Julie for over half an hour.

Wilson stood up and walked slowly over to Greg. "You made an obscene phone call to a woman who had done you no harm at at all, wanton, obscene cruelty - " He paused. Doctor Simpson, months ago, warning him off Greg, came to mind - _a kind of poisoned revenge_ -

"Got it," Greg said wearily, "you're morally outraged. Now can we get through this part?" His eyes looked black, not blue, in the dim light: white showed all round the dilated pupil.

He really could punish Greg. He didn't need to involve anyone else. Just use his belt, or his _hands_ - even Greg knew he'd done something deserving of punishment, he'd been sitting there for half an hour anticipating it. Expecting it. For Wilson to punish Greg - whatever he did, no matter _what_ he did - would be just what Greg expected.

He wouldn't be doing it for Julie. He'd be doing it for himself. Wilson stood there above Greg and looked down at him and thought about him screaming, and how good it would feel.

"What do you want to eat?" he said finally. "Chinese?" He turned away from Greg, and sat down, picking up the phone. He remembered the number of the restaurant near their home - Julie was probably working out an order with her friends right now, unless tonight was one of the evenings she'd planned to cook. He heard Greg start to get up, and turned his head round to watch: Greg's leg had stiffened, and he had difficulty pushing himself to his feet. Wilson glanced at his watch. Greg wasn't due for his oxycontin for another hour.

He ordered almost at random from the menu, as slowly, his face held rigid as if he thought he could hide his pain from Wilson, Greg stood up. He was leaning on his cane by the time Wilson finished, realising as he did so that he'd been thinking in terms of leftovers in the large fridge at home, not a hotel bedroom with a minibar.

"Do you really think this is going to end well, for anyone?" Greg asked.

"How do you feel about mooshoo?" Wilson asked. "I made it a double order, pork and shrimp."

"Some Jew you are."

"Sit down," Wilson said, patting the bed beside him.

Greg looked at him with extraordinary wariness, but he sat down. He was trembling.

"I'm going to let you have the oxycontin in about forty minutes," Wilson told him. "That should give it time to kick in before the food gets here." He put his arms around Greg, and lay down, pulling Greg to lay with him. "I'm going to have to take you back to the hospital after we've eaten." He brushed his hands down Greg's back, moving his left hand slowly, luxuriously slowly, to the great ridged scar that he could feel even through Greg's jeans.

Greg's heart was racing. His breath was coming in short, desperate pants. He cried out before Wilson's hand had even reached his hip bone, and jerked away from Wilson, rolling on to his right side and huddling himself into a curled shape on the bed, presenting his back and shoulders to Wilson.

"Greg?"

He got no answer. Wilson put his hand on Greg's back and felt him shudder, tucking himself further in.

Wilson sat still. He rubbed at Greg's back for a while. That got boring. He picked up the journal Greg had been reading, and found it wasn't in English: it was the Bulletin de la Societe de Pathologie Exotique. The other journal had text on the front that Wilson didn't even recognise. "Is this Arabic?" he asked, and opened up the journal. The pages were interleaved with scrap paper and notes.

"It's Hindi," Greg said. "Mastishka vijnaana."

"What?" Wilson closed the journal up again. Greg's voice had been cracked and shaky, and he was still curled up tight on the bed. "You read Hindi?"

"If I have a dictionary," Greg said to his knees.

"You didn't bring a dictionary with you."

"Forgot."

Wilson lay down beside Greg. He put his arms around him, and curved himself around the desperate coil Greg was making of himself. "Relax," he said gently. "I'm not going to hurt you." He smiled, moving his cheek against Greg's cropped hair. He was so close to what he wanted that he could afford to be patient. He felt good, holding Greg like this. He wanted to fuck him, but he could wait. He did wait, holding Greg, for a while, before he asked "How many languages do you read?" he asked.

"English, Spanish, Portugese, French, German, Japanese, Latin... Greek and Arabic with a dictionary... Chinese, a bit..." Greg's voice wavered.

"Hindi?"

"I asked for a dictionary... they're, they're publishing c-cutting edge neuroscience in India..." Greg sounded as if his jaw was shaking.

"Your dad must have been posted a lot of places." Wilson petted Greg's hand, clenched over his knee. Greg flinched and curled up tighter. "I'm not going to hurt you," Wilson repeated, more than a bit exasperated. "Relax."

"You _want_ to hurt me," Greg said into his knees. His voice was small and broken.

Wilson half-laughed. "When you try to mess up my divorce with obscene phone calls, what do you expect?"

Greg made a noise - it wasn't words. Wilson gripped firmly at Greg's hand and tugged. He was at the wrong angle to get leverage: he let go and sat up, moving round the bed. He knelt down on the side facing Greg. Greg's eyes flickered open, then clenched shut. His face was almost hidden against his knees, his arms hugged round his legs, his hands clutching each knee. If he had been lying on his other side, so that the scarred leg was upmost, the position would have been ideal for Wilson to examine his scar. But he'd rolled onto the scar - touching it would mean getting Greg to uncurl, or rolling him all the way over -

Which was why Greg had curled up into this position.

"I'm not going to hurt your leg," Wilson said testily. "Stop this." He glanced at his watch. It was about time for Greg's oxycontin dose, but if he stayed in this position, it would be easier to inject it than get him to take it orally: he didn't have a sharps kit, but maybe he should get one.

He got up from the bed and picked up his briefcase. It took him a minute or so to find the orange bottle and remove the Greg's evening dose, and another minute or so to put the bottle safely away in the room's lockbox and set the combination. In those few minutes, when he turned back, Greg had uncurled: not completely, but not the clenched-up huddle of earlier.

Wilson went to the bathroom for a toothglass of water. "Open up," he said, and watched fascinated as Greg lifted his face away from his knees and opened his mouth: Greg's lips were cracked at the corners, but felt soft against Wilson's fingers as he tucked the pills inside. He gave Greg a drink of water. Then he sat down on the bed and watched, fascinated, from a little distance, as Greg untucked himself from the coil of tension he had gathered himself into. He was thinking hard.

Their food arrived about when the oxycontin must have kicked in, and Wilson unpacked it on the room's coffee table. He'd ordered beef in black bean sauce, and the smell would have woken the dead.

Greg edged down the bed, eyeing Wilson, and reached for the carton with the pork mooshu pancakes.

"I know why Cuddy can't whip good behaviour into you," Wilson said.

"I'm irredeemable," Greg said. He was sitting awkwardly, keeping his left side to Wilson.

"When you wanted to convince me you needed to stay on methadone, you broke your hand," Wilson said.

Greg lowered his chopsticks, staring at Wilson, open-mouthed.

"We discussed how gating mechanisms for pain work," Wilson said. He was feeling pleased with himself. "You broke your hand, your leg stopped hurting. A judicial whipping must be applied to the shoulders and upper back area, it's intended to cause moderate to severe pain... but for you, it's a gating mechanism. It hurts - but your leg stops hurting. If anyone wants to discipline you by pain, it's got to be applied to your leg - "

"No," Greg said. He was shaking his head. "No - no - "

"Hey," Wilson said, alarmed, "no curling up again! _I'm_ not going to hurt you!" He helped himself to some rice, and scooped some into Greg's carton. "Come on. Eat."

Greg swallowed. He was staring at Wilson, big-eyed.

"I just wanted you to know," Wilson said. "You do anything like that again - and I will tell Cuddy why she has a problem trying to keep you in line."

"You're not going to hurt me," Greg said.

"No," Wilson agreed.

"You want _other people_ to hurt me," Greg said.

Wilson paused, and thought about it, and smiled at Greg. "Only if you try this again."

Greg shut up and ate. He ate as if he hadn't had any food since that morning, though when Wilson asked, he shrugged.

"Chase says you hate the slave canteen."

Greg shrugged again. When he finally slowed down, there were less leftovers than Wilson had thought there would be. Wilson took hold of Greg's hand and lay down, tugging Greg back with him. "Half an hour," he said tiredly, "and I'll take you back to the hospital." He was full and comfortable; he didn't particularly want to go out again.

They'd been lying on the bed together for ten minutes or so: Wilson could tell by his breathing that Greg wasn't asleep, though he hadn't said anything.

"Why do you resent this so much?" Wilson asked. He didn't actually expect an answer. They'd been lying on the bed together for ten minutes or so: Wilson could tell by his breathing that Greg wasn't asleep, though he hadn't said anything.

"You never loved your wife," Greg said, flatly.

"What?"

Wilson reared up on his elbow. Greg was staring at the ceiling, his hands flat at his sides, palm up. His eyes were open.

"What?" Wilson said again. "Of course I - What the hell business is it of yours?"

"You and your wife separated only weeks ago. You sounded loving, caring, and comforting when you spoke to her on the phone. But you didn't actually care that I'd upset her - you were angry with me only because it might have put your divorce process at risk. She was cheating on you, wasn't she? And you get the upper hand because of it. I saw you cry the first night you brought me here, but it wasn't because you were sorry you were losing her. You've been married twice before. Did they break it off, or did you?" Greg turned his head and looked at Wilson, with cold blue eyes. "I think you withdrew affection until they told you it was over. With me, of course... you have to take off the tag. I _can't_ break it off with you. What does that do for you, Doctor Wilson?"

Wilson hooked his left hand into a D-ring on Greg's collar, and gripped his head with his clumsier right. He fastened his mouth over Greg's. This didn't feel like a kiss: he parted Greg's lips with his and pushed his tongue inside, tasting familiar flavors. He explored Greg's mouth, forcing him to shut up. When he lifted his mouth from Greg's, the slave didn't attempt to speak.

"Okay," Wilson said. He was, at the end of what already felt like a very long day, going to have to write an e-mail to his lawyer explaining how he had happened to have that conversation with Julie. And he wanted to be able to say, honestly, that he hadn't had sex with the slave: they'd talked as planned and he'd taken the slave back to the hospital. "Okay. Let's go."

"Okay," Greg echoed. He sat up and looked around wearily for his cane. Wilson got up and walked round the bed: the cane had fallen out of reach. He picked it up and handed it to him. Instead of neatly putting away the leftovers, Wilson shoved the entire mess of cartons and leftover food into the bag it had been delivered in. He dropped it into a trash can on their way down to the car park.

There was a young man leaning against Wilson's car. Wilson stopped, wondering if he should call for hotel security.

"Doctor Wilson, I want you to meet my stalker," Greg said. He sounded, if anything, amused.

"Your waiting room sucks," the young man said. He was staring at them. He was holding a medical file.

"I am not treating you," Greg said, stating a fact.

"What, because you're a closet-case?" He looked at Greg's collar, then at Wilson.

"Er... we're not..." Wilson said, embarrassed.

Greg turned and looked at him. There was an odd, amused expression on his face, though his voice was simply sarcastic. "He is _so_ self-loathing," he said, as if to the young man. "Well, we've got to go now, so maybe see you when you're hanging out in the hospital lobby like you usually do - "

"No, no, no," the young man said. He took a step or two away from Wilson's car, and pushed the file into Greg's hands. "Nobody can figure out what's wrong with me."

"Well," Greg said, "your shirt is gaping at the collar, means you lost weight, you're flushed, that's fever, and you're short of breath. And finally there's the KS lesion on your face; means you're HIV positive, you've progressed to full-blown AIDS. So you're sick because your immune system is shot and someone sneezed on you. If you're hanging out in the lobby next time you want a medical opinion, I like coffee black and sweet." He pushed the file back at the young man. "Can I be excused now? I can't help you."

"Brilliant," the young man said. He bent to grab hold of the end of Greg's cane: alarmed, Wilson stepped forward, but Greg was holding his balance. "But my immune system is fine."

"Your concentration camp physique begs to differ." Greg wasn't even looking at Wilson. "Get your T-cell count re-checked."

"I've already done that." The young man tugged on the cane, and Greg swayed but stayed on his feet. Wilson took out his cellphone and called the hotel switchboard.

"They test for T-cell lymphoma?" Greg asked. Wilson turned away. "Wilson, room 413. I'm in the car park, bay - " He told them the number. "There's a situation, a young man harassing us - "

"All of this will be fascinating to an HIV specialist," Greg said. "Now let go of my cane before it becomes your new boyfriend."

"Honey, I will marry it if you would look at my file," the man said.

"We're already in a relationship," Greg said. He suddenly let go of his cane and kept his balance: the young man fell backwards, against Wilson's car, setting off the alarm. Wilson shoved his cell into his pocket and dashed forwards: the young man looked as if he were going into shock. He was struggling for breath. Wilson set his fingers on the man's face, feeling the puffiness, and rolled back his eyelid. He looked up. Two men were already there, wearing hotel employee shirts, and one of them had pushed Greg to his knees. "He's going into anaphylactic shock," Wilson said. "We need an epi pen. Call an ambulance."

"I didn't touch him," Greg said. He didn't sound apologetic; he sounded interested. One of the hotel employees slapped the side of his head, and he shut up. The other was already on his cell phone.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cuddy started her working day at 7am. She used the first two hours to get through paperwork. Or, occasionally, to deal with a problem that couldn't wait till 9am.

Two of the guards on Barrie's in-House squad, or whatever he was currently calling it, were holding Greg on his knees outside her office: his hands were manacled behind his back. They had taken custody of Greg from the Hyatt-Homestead hotel's security guards. Wilson had screwed up.

"Let me summarise this for you," Cuddy said. She was drinking a 4-shot espresso which Wilson had bought for her on his way in. It had not made her feel any better about the situation, but she was feeling more awake. "You took Greg off hospital property into a public space without manacling him or even leashing him. While he was in the public space, he was approached by Kelvin Anderson, who wants "Doctor House" to treat him. Anderson has no health insurance, by the way. He's been HIV+ since he was 16 and now has full-blown AIDS. Because Greg wasn't wearing his rolltop, Anderson saw his collar and tag: because you didn't have Greg restrained, he struck a free man and if Anderson had died, Greg would now be in the county slave lockup awaiting sentencing."

"We gave him epi, he's fine. And Greg didn't hit him."

"Two hotel security guards witnessed Greg strike Anderson with his cane," Cuddy said. "Anderson nearly died. The crime happened on the hotel's property, and the hotel were fully justified in having Greg placed in _their_ lockup until he could be returned to his owner. If they had opted to have Greg whipped for it, there would have been no real way for me to protest. Fortunately, they simply returned him to the hospital as soon as the day shift came on duty. Why on earth were you in the hotel car park at that time in the evening? You'd left the hospital at six, with Greg. Did you take him out somewhere?" Cuddy finished the last of her espresso. "Dinner and a show?" She looked at Wilson, who was looking embarassed. "Tell me you didn't take him out somewhere," she said.

"I didn't!" Wilson still looked embarrassed. "It was _nothing_ to do with the situation in the car park."

"Are you planning to remove the tag?"

"No."

"Greg obviously did _something_ to embarrass you, or you'd tell me why. Did you take Greg anywhere but your hotel bedroom?"

"No."

"Did he communicate with anyone but yourself?"

Wilson hesitated for a long time. "He made an obscene phone call to my wife."

Cuddy stared. "And were you planning to tell me that before or after she sues the hospital for sexual harassment?"

"She won't," Wilson said. "We talked for about half an hour - I apologized, I explained, I told her I'd deal with the slave myself - "

"And did you?"

Wilson barely hesitated. He remembered the locked-in coil Greg had made of himself. "Yes. And I e-mailed my lawyer about the situation. But that's why I was bringing him - Greg - back to the hospital - "

"I encouraged you to tag him because I thought you could handle him, not so you could make a bad situation worse," Cuddy reminded him.

"Greg was upset last night. He'll calm down."

"Don't make me regret this," Cuddy said. She nodded. "Tell security to bring Greg in."

"Are you going to - " Wilson hesitated, looking uncertain and interested. He was, Cuddy had noticed, at once drawn to and repelled by the idea of having Greg whipped. If he had beaten Greg last night, and she wasn't sure he had been able to, it hadn't been to the degree of a judicial whipping.

"Greg has a choice," Cuddy said plainly. "Either I have him whipped for striking a free person - fifty lashes, even with your testimony that he didn't intend it - or he treats Kelvin Anderson. If I have him whipped he won't be able to work in the clinic for at least two days and he won't be able to treat Anderson and Anderson won't be able to sue us for having an undisciplined slave. If he opts to treat Anderson, we're likely to find that costly, but less costly than being sued. If your wife complains that we own a slave who sexually harassed her, I'll have to have him whipped anyway."

Wilson stood there looking shocked. As he had tagged Greg, he had the right to witness Greg's punishments; Stacy had generally ensured that Greg's behavior never needed a whipping.

"I'm surprised," Wilson said, after a moment, "that you're not just having him whipped. Sounds like it would be the cheaper option, even losing his days in the clinic."

Cuddy shrugged. "We are a hospital. Greg's function is to treat patients. Please try to bear that in mind." She looked at her e-mails and back at Wilson. "And if you take him out of the hospital in future - he should be either leashed or in shackles."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Taking the Diagnostics slave down to the basement was a job that took very precise timing. It was easier if Doctor Cuddy was there to tell the slave the punishment was authorized: it was easier if it was out of hours. At the end of the morning, with staff and patients coming in and out, it was going to be hell. Johnson had to re-read the order slip twice before he realized, with considerable relief, that this time it ought to be easier.

They weren't allowed to touch the slave in the clinic unless it was a direct security issue. As he left the clinic and crossed the lobby, Johnson glanced at Perez and pointed: he was walking towards the stairway door. Johnson went after him, and Perez went to the elevator.

The slave was heading up the stairs. Johnson took his cane away: the slave clutched at the handrail. Perez came down the stairs from the next floor: Johnson saw the slave glance upward in surprise, and in that momentary distraction, he got the slave's wrists in cuffs.

"Okay," Johnson said. The slave had gone still and limp. "We're not instructed to take you to the basement. Hospital lawyer needs to interview you."

After a moment, the slave nodded. He swallowed hard. "Why the cuffs?"

Perez hit him on the side of the head. "Shut up."

"We're going off hospital property," Johnson said. "If you keep quiet we'll put you in the back seat of the car."

"He's going in the trunk," Perez said, unamiably. "You can't trust him, he's too smart for his own fucking good."

"He can yell just as loud in the trunk." Johnson shoved the order slip in front of the slave. "Take a look. We're required to take you there, let the lawyer interview you, and take you back when Warner's done. You yell, we will put you in the trunk with a gag. You keep quiet, you can ride in the back seat."

After a moment, the slave nodded. He didn't say anything.

"Smart," Johnson said, approvingly, and rubbed the back of the slave's head. There were other slaves that were more fun to fuck, but this one gave the best blow-jobs. There were stringent regulations about taking unauthorized work breaks to use the slaves for sex - Johnson wondered if Warner would take long enough interviewing the slave that they'd be legitimately on a break when it was time to take him back.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The fax through from the hospital warned Stacy of the security car's arrival: Greg didn't have his cane, but one of the guards helped Greg to the door.

"Just page us when you need to return the slave to the hospital," he said. "No rush, ma'am."

"This shouldn't take long," Stacy assured them.

The cuffs were the keyless model hospitals used. Stacy took them off and dropped them on the table beside the door with the house keys. Greg brought his wrists round front and stood there, rubbing them, eyeing her.

"Computer bureaucracy," Stacy said. "I booked today working from home because the exterminator wouldn't give me a time of arrival. So they deliver you here instead. Come on through to the kitchen." She pointed.

She had coffee brewing and poured Greg a mug, adding two spoons of brown sugar.

"What do you need to know?"

"I don't know why they sent me to you," Greg said. He sat down and looked up at her. "I got locked up for assault last night."

"What?" Stacy sat down. "What happened?"

Greg summarised it briefly: the head of oncology had taken him back to his hotel room for an evening interview: on the way back to the hospital at about 9pm they'd been interrupted in the hotel car park by a young man who'd been trying to get Greg's medical attention: he'd grabbed Greg's cane, then Greg had let go, and in falling back against the car, the young man had gone into anaphylactic shock.

"You didn't actually hit him," Stacy said, "and he was trespassing. Doctor Cancer - "

"Wilson," Greg said.

"Doctor Wilson actually called for hotel security _before_ the man had this attack. You're in the clear, legally, but you have to treat him."

"Why? Medically, his case is a snooze-fest. AIDS plus infection."

"And you'll have a lot of time to think about this while we try to find a judge that won't just sentence you without asking more than the victim and two hotel security."

Greg half-smiled. "I had a lot of time to think about it in the hotel lock-up last night."

Stacy nodded. "You don't treat him, he charges you with assault," she said, sympathetically.

Greg nodded. He pushed himself to his feet and took the coffee cup to the sink. "What's the exterminator for? Got a plague of wheelchairs?"

"I saw a rat last night," Stacy said.

Greg tucked up the sleeves of his roll-top. "Well, I'm surprised your feet are touching the floor."

"I barely slept," Stacy admitted. She hadn't expected how big a rat was.

"What was Mark up to?" Greg asked. He leaned against the counter, and squirted liquid soap on the brush. "Memory serves, quick climb up Mount Gregory, and you'd doze through a seal hunt. Screaming, clubbing." Stacy remembered, abruptly: at home, Greg watched nature documentaries and Monster Trucks, and the number of times she had half-woken, late at night, to find Greg propped up in bed watching something in which animals ate each other on camera or enormous trucks smashed each other to pieces... it didn't happen any more; Mark slept eight hours solid, and if Stacy woke at night, she never woke him.

Greg was doing the dishes. It was odd and familiar. It took Stacy a long moment to realise what was wrong with it. "What're you doing?" she asked.

"Sorry, it's driving me nuts," Greg said.

"You hate washing dishes," Stacy said. The first few times he'd stayed over, she'd felt awkward about telling him to do anything: and had discovered that, left alone, Greg would never pick up anything that wasn't immediately in his way, wipe up anything that wasn't inconveniencing him, and never thought about doing the dishes.

Greg shrugged at her. He glanced round the room, with almost a wistful expression on his face. "People change." He caught her eye, and the wistful expression changed to a lewd one in a flash. "I could make sure you'd sleep like a baby tonight."

Stacy grinned. "Rather take care of that myself." She moved up to stand at the sink with him, and wipe the dishes.

"I was referring to the rat."

"The exterminators will deal with it."

Mark had been at physio. He had a lunch break, and therapy in the afternoon: he usually ate lunch at the hospital. Stacy hadn't been expecting him back till later. He must have got a cab over, thinking they'd have lunch together.

"What's going on?"

Greg could have waited for Stacy to reply. Instead, he dropped the brush in the soapy water, and turned, too quickly not to look guilty. He even sounded apologetic. "It's not what you think. I know it looks like we're cleaning dishes, but actually we're having sex."

"We're working," Stacy said, calmly. She had the kind of face that didn't show emotions, a gift for a lawyer. She had loved that kind of comeback, when Greg had been with her. She did not love it now.

"Wow," Mark said, after a moment. He wasn't even looking at her. "wish I'd become a doctor. Place would be spotless." He smirked - not at her: at Greg: and wheeled away.

Stacy went after him. At the door of the kitchen, she turned to look at Greg, standing at the sink, looking tall and lanky and _familiar_ there, where he shouldn't be. She made her voice crisp. "Take ten minutes, cure the guy, and stay out of hotel car parks. And get back to the hospital." She did not stay to watch: she knew Greg would pick up the cuffs he had arrived in, to hand them to the guards who had driven him over.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"Fifty lashes," Cuddy told Wilson. She looked tired. "He hit a free man. He hit the father of a patient in front of the patient and put him in hospital."

"To confirm a diagnosis," Wilson said. "Confirmed a diagnosis. He may have saved the father's life. The liver cysts could have ruptured at any time."

"He hit a free man," Cuddy repeated. "I'm informing you because it's your right to witness the punishment. Greg will spend 24 hours in the slave recovery ward, and he won't return to clinic duty for 48 hours. No painkillers until he goes back on clinic duty. You can dispose of his time as you wish during that period." Her voice was clinical, cool: Wilson felt himself blush.

There was a brisk knock on Cuddy's door. Warner came in.

"About Greg," she said, and closed the door. "He came to me and told me about the incident in the ward."

"He hit a free man," Wilson said.

Warner nodded. "The man punched him first. Also, it helps that the son was not aware that Greg is actually a slave: he told his father as soon as he regained consciousness that the collar was because, I quote, 'Doctor House and Doctor Wilson are kinky for each other'." She glanced at Wilson. "Sorry. But it actually helps. Apparently when you were escorting Greg back to the hospital, he saw Greg's collar, but you hadn't got Greg on a leash or in cuffs - and of course here in the hospital, he's seen and heard Greg referred to as Doctor House. The father is aware his life was saved, and he assumes that if he sues the hospital for assault, the hospital can countersue because he punched Greg first."

"Greg came to you?" Wilson said.

Warner glanced at him. "It's personal. I used to know him when I worked here before. Lisa, can you confirm that there isn't any need for any further action?"

"Certainly," Cuddy said, quite smoothly. She glanced at Wilson. "Providing neither of the patients finds out that Greg _is_ a slave."

Stacy shrugged. "I don't see any reason why they should." She nodded and turned to go. Wilson followed her, with a half-apologetic glance at Cuddy. Of course fifty lashes would be terrible for Greg, even knowing what Wilson knew about gating pain: of course forty-eight hours without painkillers would be even worse: but Greg, helpless in Wilson's hotel room, crying with the pain...

Wilson swallowed. "Ms Warner."

Warner turned. "I have to meet my husband. I'm sorry, I..."

"Can I walk you to your car?" Wilson asked.

"Thank you," Warner said.

"I have the office next to Diagnostics," Wilson said. "I buy Greg coffee sometimes, and lunch. But he didn't come to me for help."

"Yes," Warner said. She glanced up at Wilson. "It really isn't easy for him, you know," she said. "He's a doctor, he's highly intelligent, and he has to accept that for many people at this hospital, he's literally just..." her voice trailed off. "Do you know how much pain he's in?"

"He's on a twice-daily dose of oxycontin," Wilson said. "Before that for two years he was on methadone. I don't know exactly what his pain levels are, but ..."

"I knew him before his leg was hurt," Stacy said. "I think it's even more difficult for him now." Legal offices were on the second floor. They were alone in the elevator. "Doctor Wilson, I appreciate your concern for Greg. Believe me, I do. I won't be here permanently, and he needs someone who cares for him. He can't keep coming back to me. I don't want him to." She nodded, dismissal, and the doors opened: she walked out into the hall, and two nurses joined Wilson for the ride up to the fourth.

Greg was in the Eames chair, reading. He was still wearing his roll top. There was a purpling area under his eye.

"You know," Wilson said, closing the door behind him, "I just talked to Stacy Warner."

Greg lifted his chin. "Interesting conversation?"

"Yes," Wilson said. "It seems she saved you from a judicial whipping, fifty lashes, when she talked the free man you assaulted out of pressing charges."

"She's a good lawyer."

"Doubtless helped by the private interview she had with you yesterday."

Silence from Greg. His eyes were fixed on Wilson.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "Odd thing, about that private interview. You were assigned to the hospital legal department to tell one of the general counsels about what happened. Then a specific order was generated to assign you to Stacy Warner. As Warner was taking a day working from home, that probably should have kicked the assignment on to someone else. But instead, a set of further orders were generated, which got hospital security to escort you to Warner's residence and back again. It's almost as if someone who could log onto the hospital mainframe with an administrative ID _wanted_ you to meet with Warner in the privacy of her own home."

Greg's face twisted. "You're obsessive."

"I got interested," Wilson said, "when I found that you had hidden photocopied therapy notes interleaved in the pages of the Indian magazine. Not just _any_ therapy notes. I think they're Stacy Warner's."

There was a long pause. Greg's eyes flickered from side to side. "You have no proof," Greg said.

"No," Wilson admitted easily. "When I realized what I was reading, I threw the handwritten notes away. You'll just have to start again translating that cutting-edge Indian neuroscience. I think you're less concerned about being whipped for stealing therapy notes than you are about Warner finding out you did." He paused. "I'm not going to tell her," he said. "I don't have to. She's happily married. And you're tagged."

Greg swallowed. "What - what are you - "

"You've been trying to hide that you're tagged now," Wilson said. He pointed at the rolltop. "From your fellows? But you know Foreman and Chase have a betting pool going on about when I'll tag you. From everyone else? Helped you get away with hitting your patient's dad, but I don't believe you had that planned. I think there's only one person you don't want to find out, and that's the woman who had you tagged. I don't care how long you try to hide it, because it doesn't make any difference. You're mine."

_*tbc*_

_My favorite stalker, Tailkinker, wrote a short story based on her thoughts about how Wilson tagging House might go: "Tagged" - it's on her profile and under the CollarVerse community. She wrote it practically as I was writing the first section of this chapter, and posted it well before she could read this! If you've read "Tagged" first, that's why the difference - Tailkinker's story is of course AU to mine! If you haven't read "Tagged", do go and tell Tailkinker if you enjoyed it (I did). I enjoy reading other people's explorations in the Collarverse.  
_


	8. Mistake

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

**2.08 The Mistake**

Wilson didn't take Greg back to his hotel room every night, though he did ensure that Greg always had an evening meal that wasn't canteen food. If the clinic let Wilson know it was going to be a busy night, he would let them have Greg for the evening shift.  
His plan was to keep Greg to a steady routine. He didn't hurt Greg: he would spend some time each evening handling Greg, petting him, touching Greg's scar, gently, never roughly. He'd give Greg his evening meds and they'd eat, and then watch a film, or Wilson would watch and Greg would read: if Greg wanted (and he usually did) Wilson would let Greg give him a blowjob. Greg accepted sleeping in the same bed as Wilson, and they'd have breakfast on the way in to work, at one or other of the neighborhood diners.

Greg was getting less skittish, even if he still wore his rolltop to hide his new status: the security guards all knew, and Wilson knew word was getting round among the other medical staff. Eventually, Greg would relax completely, and understand that he was better off under Wilson's care and control.

And then Wilson was going to fuck him. He was looking forward to that.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Sam and Kayla McGinlay had made Chase wonder would it would have been like to have a sister or a brother: if someone else had known what it was like to deal with his mother's drinking and his father's neglect. It had hit Chase, right in the middle of what would have been his last conversation with Sam, that Kayla had died because of his father. Sam's sister was dead, and though Sam didn't know it, that was Chase's fault: and he had screwed up, so finally and completely, because of his father's final act of cruelty.

That he couldn't even be sure if his father had intended to be cruel or had simply never thought that Chase's feelings mattered, had suppressed his feelings for six months: Sam talking wearily, gently, about how he and his nieces were coping after Kayla's death had felt like he was slicing scar tissue away with every word. Sam sat up, buttoning his shirt. "We'll be OK, though." He had reached closure. Chase hadn't. Maybe he never would.

"Good," Chase said. His voice sounded normal, even. His father approved self-control. He was drowning and his voice sounded even and normal. Good. Sam was saying something about how they'd be moving, Chase reacted conversationally, Sam was going, it was over, Sam didn't even know...

He hardly knew he was going to say it till he did. "I killed your sister."

The disciplinary hearing was scheduled for three weeks later. Cameron and Foreman didn't talk to him about it: House asked him, twice, when Chase happened to be the last fellow in the office, if he wanted to talk about it: Chase didn't, either time. Or any time. He just wanted it over with.

The morning after the second time House had asked if he wanted to talk about it, Warner caught Chase on his way into the hospital.

House asked him, twice, when Chase happened to be the last fellow in the office, if he wanted to talk about it: Chase didn't, either time. Or any time. He just wanted it over with.

The morning after the second time House had asked if he wanted to talk about it, Warner caught Chase on his way into the hospital and told him they needed to talk. Chase assumed, all the way to the meeting room, that this was about House: Warner had, once, had House tagged, though this was years before Chase came to the hospital. And now someone had tagged House: the tag itself wasn't visible beneath the roll-top, but the dead give-away was that House was wearing his roll-tops all the time. Mostly he forgot. He remembered to put them on when he was going down to the clinic, but unless Foreman chased after him, he was just as likely to forget when he went to see a patient.

Chase wondered if House knew they knew, but he supposed Warner would have noticed, and he really didn't want to talk about it. Wilson made Chase think of crocs: slow and smiling-jawed and ferociously dangerous. A croc could bite you in half, if you were stupid enough to think that the muddy log sleeping by the water would stay that torpid when you were in range. And though Chase hadn't seen the tag and couldn't say for sure, he didn't suppose anyone else had tagged House.

So it was pretty much a relief to be told: the disciplinary hearing had been moved up to tomorrow. Warner was advising him to postpone, but once it was done, it was over. Chase signed the documents, and Warner asked him, if he wanted her legal advice, to tell her what had happened.

He could still feel the awful sinking feeling, numbing: it would never change. It couldn't change. His father was beyond all change.

He could still see Kayla, with her hand on the door, saying "Doctor..." (he could hear her saying "Robert...", in fact, the same inflection his mother had used) and himself, dismissively, "Yes?" He'd used that tone to his mother sometimes. He'd used it to his father, when the old bastard finally showed up after his ex-wife's funeral to tell Chase that he was going to plan Chase's life from now on.

"Nothing," Kayla had said. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

"I made one little mistake."

"As little mistakes go, that was a biggie." Warner sighed. "I thought she was Foreman's patient, why did you do the exam?"

The real answer was, because it was still so close to Vogler's departure from PPTH, that House had still gleefully been taking revenge by giving Chase any distasteful job that came up: and examining Kayla for genital sores was a classic House decision: Chase wouldn't like it, but he'd make Kayla feel more comfortable than Foreman (Foreman prided himself on his doctor-patient interactions and sneered at Chase's, but Chase got results where Foreman just got a stiff-backed "Fuck off!") and Cameron would have spent far too long (in House's view) sympathizing and taking a detailed family history.

"I'd spilled some of his medication," Chase said. "He was going to have to go back to the pharmacy and ask for some more."

Warner nodded. "Why did you call her an hour after she left the clinic? Nurse Previn said you asked her to have Kayla come back in."

"The way she hesitated," Chase said slowly, "I thought she might have had a doorknob question." He could see Warner looked blank. "Patient comes in, says he's got a sniffly nose; you examine him for 10 minutes right? Then you're leaving, hand on the doorknob, and he says 'Oh yeah and my penis has turned green'."

"Embarrassing question," Warner nodded, understanding, "only important when patient saves it for last, so you knew she was about to ask the most important question... and you left.

"No. I didn't. I figured it out later."

After the worst of the fog had cleared - if it had been an hour later, Nurse Previn was probably right, Chase couldn't have said - he'd known that he should have asked what Kayla wanted to say to him. But by then it was too late: one of her bleeding ulcers had perforated, and the contents of her stomach had spilled: she had a septic internal wound.

He was not going to say to Warner's closed, basically unsympathetic face, why he had not been able to hear Kayla right then. He was not going to say it to anyone. Ever.

"We'll take a break," Warner said. They had been talking for nearly an hour. "If I skip my coffee I get cranky. Do you want anything?" Chase shook his head.

"You don't have to stay in this room, but don't go up to Diagnostics. Or anywhere else you might talk to someone involved in this case. I'll order lunch in, if we're still talking at one, and I think that's likely.

Chase guessed she was going to talk to House, and maybe Cameron and Foreman. He wasn't hungry. He shook his head.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

House was in exam room two, Nurse Previn told Stacy: with a patient. Stacy went in anyway, but House actually was seeing a patient: a young man who was coughing.

"I need to talk with you," Stacy told him.

House glanced over, very briefly. He said, to the patient, "Let me guess, no insurance, just heard about the free clinic. It's a good move. You don't want to skimp on the essentials like wristwatches, MP3 players..." He glanced at Stacy again. "From the doorway?"

"It's confidential," Stacy said.

"Cool. I love gossip," House said. In a quick movement, he tucked the ear pieces of his stethoscope into the patient's ears. He raised his voice slightly. "Hear that crackling sound like crumpling up paper? Keep listening. Let me know if it changes." There was a stool by the wall. He limped to it, sat down on it, and looked at Stacy.

"Two questions," Stacy said. She was still angry with House, she had to remember: what he had done was unforgiveable. He'd known she wouldn't even try to get him into trouble over it. "Why did Chase screw up, and how bad was it?"

"Wow," House said. "Talk about efficient. I only need one answer - Chase didn't screw up."

"He said he did," Stacy pointed out.

House folded his hands together between his knees. "Well, I'm not a lawyer, but that seems like a sucky legal strategy."

"Look," Stacy said, annoyed, "I don't want to know what you think a _reasonable_ doctor would have done in Chase's position."

"If I thought he was a 'reasonable' doctor, I wouldn't have hired him." House looked almost happy.

"God, you two are a couple of geniuses," Stacy said. She was frustrated. Chase's stonewalling she could understand: he didn't get it because he had never been through a disciplinary hearing before. House had been through it more than once in five years they'd been together. Twice he had been whipped. Both times he had spent days in the recovery ward, days more in pain: it was ugly and House, at least, should be able to escape this. Chase might not, but Chase would lose at most money and some privileges: although she'd scared him with the possibility, it wasn't likely it could cost him his career. "Deny everything; completely fool the lawyer who's trying to help you. Too bad the review committee members are actually doctors." She turned to walk out.

"Stacy," House said. As she turned back, he sighed. "There were two bleeding ulcers. Chase didn't know in time because he didn't ask the right questions. He cauterized one before it perforated, but the second was a mess. She'd mentioned stomach pain, but Chase didn't listen to her stomach, check her vitals, or ask questions about diarrhea or blood in the stool, because she was in for a routine checkup. Chase and I had a conversation about that at the time, and I made a number of trenchant remarks which made Chase cry, none of which I'm going to testify about, unless you convince Chase to roll on me."

Stacy stared. House looked back at her. His eyes were very wide and blue. He had stolen her therapist's notes. He knew things she'd never meant anyone to know, about her and Mark, about her feelings about House. She was angry with him. Chase was her client. House was not. Chase was entitled to her best legal advice, which was that he should blame House for inadequate supervision.

And House believed she was going to do that.

The young man's voice interrupted. "Excuse me, testify about what?"

House glanced at the file. "Ah, Chuck. I'm going to break from the parable of the wicked doctor and tell a little story about a patient. Let's call him... Buck, who has low O2 stats and crackling lung sounds."

The patient lifted the stethoscope from out his ears. "Like I have?"

"Buck has idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis," House said. "His lung tissue's turning to rock. There's no known cause, no treatment. He is slowly suffocating."

"You're talking about me?" the patient said. He sounded scared and shocked.

"Lung transplant's about a half a million dollars, but this poor sucker's got no insurance. If he tried to sign up now, he'd be excluded, pre-existing condition. But let me confirm with my lawyer..." He glanced at Stacy. "She confirms. If only Buck hadn't been diagnosed with fibrosis before he got insurance. So... back to the exam."

The patient stood up. He didn't say anything. He looked silently horrified. He left the exam room.

"That's how you tell this guy he's dying?" Stacy said, appalled.

"Oh relax," House said. He grinned at Stacy. "He's got a cold, and soon, health insurance."

The look on the young man's face had been devastated. "Such a hero," Stacy said, nastily, "always righting wrongs. Who cares who you have to manipulate."

"I'm sorry," House said. "I didn't realize you and Buck were so close."

"It's a point of principle."

"Right. It's got nothing to do with what I did to you."

"There's nothing for us to talk about. If Chase screwed up - "

"I read some notes. I found out some stuff about you you didn't want me to know. I'm sorry."

"If Chase screwed up so badly, why didn't you fire him?"

House shrugged. "He has great hair."

"What are you hiding?" Stacy demanded.

House slid off the stool and pulled off his rolltop. He did it fast. His collar was dark against his throat. It took a moment before Stacy understood what she was seeing: the tag that hung at his collar was unlike the one she had placed there, that she had seen dangling at his throat for five years. But it was a tag. Not hers.

"This," House said. He stood there, staring at her. "Oh, that's not what you meant. But yeah. Did you think you were the only one who'd ever tag me?"

Stacy turned round and walked out again.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Chase visited the nearest bathroom. He pissed, and looked at himself in the mirror: he looked normal. He didn't look like a doctor about to be struck off. He didn't think he did.

Warner was gone for half an hour. When she walked back in, she had a cup of coffee for Chase.

"Diarrhea," she said, sitting down, pushing the cup across the table, "blood in the stool. Two simple questions you could have asked her six months ago and averted this whole thing. You didn't ask either, why?"

Chase fidgeted with his shirt sleeves. It felt hot in the room. "Judging from your question, and your demeanour, I assume you were visiting with Greg." He saw Stacy react. "Been over this: _I don't know._"

"Good doctors don't make mistakes - " Warner said.

"Good doctors _never_ forget to ask questions?" _As my father would have said_ "Apparently I'm not a good doctor!"

"For your information," Warner said, not reacting to his open anger the way she had to House's name, "self-pity generally is not a good strategy in these hearings. What happened after the operation?"

"Her liver was already damaged. But sepsis had lowered her BP so much she got clots in her liver. They blocked the hepatic artery, cut off the blood flow. Her liver was shocked."

"And Cuddy listed her? With all the other problems?"

"House told her," Chase said, and watched her react to the name, "that it was my fault for missing a question, and that the hospital faces liability, and that if Kayla's family won this hospital in a lawsuit, they'd turn it into condos. So Cuddy put Kayla in at the top of the list and told us to start praying for a 12-car pileup."

"When you're testifying," Warner said after a moment, "skip the details on how House convinced Cuddy. I don't think the people who got bumped down the transplant list need to know why."

"It didn't matter anyway," Chase said. "Kayla is AB negative. Sam offered half his liver. He got the test done privately by paying the guy to rush it, and gave us his results. He was a perfect match; six out of six HLA proteins."

"So Sam bribed someone to rush his test?"

"Wouldn't you?" Chase asked.

"Someone's going to get the blame for what happened," Warner said flatly. "So the more we spread it around ... might as well ... you said no surgeon would do a live donor transplant on such short notice."

"House took care of that too," Chase said. He could guess how, pretty easily, but he had no intention of explaining that to Warner. "But because Sam had rushed his tests, we were able to get them into surgery that afternoon. Doctor Ayersman performed the live donor transplant. He resected the right lobe, hepatic vein, and hepatic artery of Sam's liver, and transplanted it into Kayla. The operation was a success. Kayla and Sam continued to receive routine care, and two months later, she came by for an exam."

Stacy got up. "I assume if I ask, you won't tell me," she said crisply. "Stay here, don't speak to anyone."

She was away this time for twenty minutes. When she came back, her face was set and cold. She sat down. "So on July 24th, Kayla came in for a routine exam following her liver transplant. You did the exam?

"Honestly, I just wanted to - "

Warner interrupted. "Honestly? So you've been lying up until now?"

Oh god, that was annoying. Chase said in a calm voice, "Let's make a deal. I won't use the word 'honestly', and you won't go see Greg and take it out on me afterwards, how about that?"

Warner's eyes narrowed. She said nothing.

Chase went on "I wanted to be as far away from Kayla as possible, but House was rubbing my nose in it. So I saw her, I asked after her daughters, I ran a full checkup, and she had a fever. Not high, but she was on immunosuppressants, she shouldn't have had a fever at all. So I admitted her. I wasn't making any more mistakes."

"Another phrase to avoid in front of the committee," Warner said.

"She spiked a fever an hour later. Her AST and ALT were up. Foreman thought she was rejecting the liver, but I thought she just had an infection: she was dehydrated, her hematocrit was way up, and one of the cultures I took was growing a strep. Then Sam bust into the conference room and told us he thought she had Hep C. House spotted he was sick himself and had two bad homemade tattoos on his arm - he told Sam that he'd had Hep C for long time and Sam admitted that he'd paid off the lab tech not just to rush the tests but to ignore the Hep C, because he wouldn't have been allowed to donate a lobe of his liver if we'd known. He said the Hep C hadn't been active in years. So House ordered an MRI for both them - he figured that Sam had liver cancer and he'd given it to Kayla."

Warner sounded impressed. "And House was right?"

"Sam had an undiagnosed hepatoma that was transplanted with his liver," Chase said. "Grew a lot faster in Kayla because she was immunosuppressed."

Warner was staring. "How could House have known?"

It's what he does, Chase thought of saying. Welcome to the end of the thought process, House liked to say. "Hepatitis can cause liver cancer. Plus her hematocrit, red blood cell count was high. Usually means dehydration, rare cases - cancer. We probably saved Sam's life. We were able to operate on him early enough before it metastasized. But Kayla had already started rejecting the liver."

"And you couldn't re-list her because of the cancer," Warner said.

"Nothing we could do." That hadn't been good.

"This is good," Warner said, unemotionally. "The brother lying about his Hep. It's an intervening act, the proximate cause of her cancer and not your mistake."

"She would have died six months ago if he hadn't given up his liver," Chase said.

"Maybe," Warner said, "but no one can prove that." Her beeper went off; she glanced at the screen. "You need to come with me."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

House was in the cubbyhole at the back of Diagnostics. He was sitting in the Eames chair, reading a medical journal: he set it down as Stacy came in. He was wearing his rolltop again."

"When I asked Chase how you got a transplant surgeon for Kayla and Sam the same day Sam volunteered to donate half his liver, Chase said 'House took care of that too'. How did you do that?"

"I told Doctor Ayresman he was the best transplant surgeon in the hospital and Kayla would be dead without his help," House said, blandly. "He was a bit reluctant because of her clotting factor, but I suggested we use Sub-Q Vitamin K and fresh frozen plasma pre-op, and he agreed to get her in that afternoon. I thanked him, he said it was his pleasure, we shook hands on it, we're really very good friends now."

"And this was right before you ran the marathon, I suppose?" Stacy said.

House was half-smiling. It wasn't pleasant. The slight bulge, under his collar, where the tag hung, was visible - or was Stacy just looking for it? "Was it the part where he warmly clasped my hands in thanks, was that too much?"

"What did you do or say to get him to agree?" Stacy was unamused.

"The hospital lawyer asks me if I did something unethical," House said. "_If_ I did, the last person I tell is the hospital lawyer, especially since she's gone all 'old testament' on me."

"You'll tell me," Stacy said, flatly. She was not amused. "You know I'm not going to use what you tell me to get you into trouble. You know because when I figured out you'd read my therapy notes, I didn't use that to get you into trouble. You don't have attorney-client privilege, but I don't have to testify about what you tell me to clarify Doctor Chase's evidence."

House shrugged. "Then, Ayresman asked me if I was completely out of my mind: he looked at her file and told me she was dying on her own so why should he volunteer to be her executioner? He said he'd just be inviting a lawsuit from the brother, no matter what. So I offered to give him a blowjob before the operation, and to let him fuck my ass after."

Stacy sat down. She wasn't sure how she made it to the chair by the desk. She sat there and stared at House. He leaned back in the Eames chair and looked at her. There was nothing in his face to indicate he was joking.

At length, House said, "He laughed at me. He told me he made 600 grand a year, and he could buy real sex slaves if he wanted to: did I think he was going to tank his percentages for a blowjob and a fuck from a crippled-up MRI machine."

Stacy opened her mouth.

House went on, very flatly, "And then he told me that for the record, he hoped the hospital took Chase and drop-kicked his ass out the back door, and took me down to the basement and whipped me until I was a bleeding mess. So I told him that was great, it meant I didn't have to blow his cock and I didn't have to welsh on the assfuck after surgery. I told him if he didn't do the surgery, I'd tell his wife that he's been sleeping with a series of nurses, currently Nurse Cutler in Radiology, and I asked him what's 600 grand divided by two?" He grinned: he showed most of his teeth. He didn't sound amused. "I saw him at the Thanksgiving party this year. Nurse Cutler handed Ayersman one of those little hotdogs, and Ayersman didn't thank her. That only happens when you're very, very intimate. That and the fact that for years Ayersman has practically been dancing around the female nursing staff with his zipper open, used condom stuck in his shoe."

Stacy closed her mouth.

"Then I told him I'd got an OR booked for four that afternoon, and I'd write his wife an anonymous letter with all the details if he wasn't there to do the transplant. And_ then_," House's voice showed emotion for the first time, "I told him that for the record, he was the worst transplant surgeon in this hospital. But unfortunately, he was the only one who was currently cheating on his wife."

"You blackmailed him?"

"Is that what really bothers you about what I just told you? She'd have been dead in two days if I hadn't made Ayersman do the surgery."

"Leave the blackmail and the - " Stacy stopped.

"The fellatio and the sodomy?" House offered. "You lawyers like Latin."

"Leave the blackmail out of the story you tell the committee," Stacy said. She did not believe that House had offered sex to Ayersman.

"I tried to leave it out of the story I told you."

"No you didn't," Stacy said. "Mrs Ayersman divorced her husband two months ago. And she started the divorce proceedings by keying his car in the parking lot."

"Apparently," House said blandly, "someone sent an anonymous letter to his wife."

"You blackmailed Ayersman before he performed the surgery and then you ratted him out anyway?"

"Doesn't seem fair, does it?"

Stacy stood up, ready to go back to Chase. "You just can't control yourself, can you?" she snapped. "No matter how stupid, how self-destructive - "

"To make this conversation easier," House said, "can we discard the fiction that we're talking about anything other than what I did to you? You're not mad because I broke into your psychiatrist's office."

"Yeah, I was thrilled about that."

"Okay, it was a lousy thing to do," House said. "But if what I'd found was that everything was all kittens and moonbeams in Markville, you'd be over it."

"No I wouldn't!"

"You're mad at me because I let too much slip, and you worked out I'd read your therapy notes, and that meant you couldn't just relax and like me the way you used to, you had to be angry with me because I know things about you that you never meant anyone to know." He paused. "And for that I actually am sorry. It was stupid."

Stacy walked out. She was almost all the way to the interview room before she had calmed down: in fact, as Chase had to point out, she wasn't calmed down even then.

The disciplinary hearing had to be moved up till tomorrow, because Cuddy had been warned that Sam McGinlay was going to serve papers on the hospital today. Cuddy paged Stacy to bring Chase to her office: two of the biggest security guards Stacy had seen around the hospital, were waiting outside Cuddy's office. House was inside, kneeling on the floor."

"Just been served with papers," Cuddy said. "Actually paper; one page."

Chase made one quick glance at House, and walked wide of him, staring directly at Cuddy.

Stacy re-opened the door. "Which of you has Greg's cane?"

"We left it up in Diagnostics," one of the guards said. "Doctor Cuddy said Greg was wanted urgently."

"Go get it," Stacy said. "Thank you." She closed the door again, and went back to House, holding out her hand. House glanced at Cuddy, who made an exasperated gesture that both House and Stacy chose to take as permission: House used Stacy's arm to lever himself to his feet, and Stacy directed him to one of the chairs against the wall.

"Defendant Princeton-Plainsboro hospital and Dr Robert Chase," Cuddy said. "Blah, blah, blah. Medical malpractice, negligence; blah, blah."

"You're surprised they're suing?" House said. "You think people love Chase so much they're going to just forgo - "

"Punitive damages in the amount of 10 million dollars." Cuddy handed the paper to Stacy.

"Punitives?" Stacy snapped. She looked down the paper. "They're alleging gross negligence."

"Well he's obviously out of his mind!" Chase snapped.

"Larry Wusekus," Stacy said. "He's not crazy." She turned to look at House. "You have been hiding things and lying to me all day!"

"I haven't lied about anything," House said. "Except for the parts that I admitted I was lying about. And I'm not the one being sued. I feel funny."

"Well," Stacy said, "what haven't you told us?"

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Chase cleared his throat. Everyone, even House, looked at him. "Before she checked out, Sam found Kayla a second liver."

"She had cancer," Cuddy said, "how could she - "

"Black market," Chase said bleakly. "He said there was a doctor in Mexico City who was going to do the surgery. I talked her out of going. Said she'd die anyway, away from her kids. She decided not to go. A week later, she died at home. Sam was furious. That's got to be why the big lawsuit."

Cuddy and Warner looked at him in patent disbelief. House wasn't looking at him at all.

"Are you buying this?" Cuddy demanded.

"Of course not," Warner said. "There _was_ no illegal transplant. There's no causation."

"He was ready to kill me!" Chase said. It was true: it just hadn't happened then. "Maybe he's lying to his lawyers."

"Or you're lying to us," Warner said. "Last Thursday he saw you for post-op care."

Chase froze. He had been trying to steer them away from that. He had been trying to steer himself away from that.

"If you hate your doctor," Warner said, "you find another doctor before you find a lawyer."

There was a knock on the door. One of the security staff came in. He was carrying House's cane. He handed it to Warner, who handed it, without comment, to House.

"This guy didn't sue Cameron or Foreman," Warner went on. "He didn't even sue the hospital, except as an ancillary to you." She was looking at Chase, with a kind of penetrating assessment Chase was more used to getting from House. "Something personal here, something you don't want us to know before your hearing. The guy didn't hate you before that meeting, he hated you after."

"I told him I killed his sister," Chase said. He was back in the moment, back in the room, lost in numbness. "I misdiagnosed her ulcer. I told him that. I killed her. I was hung-over when she came back to see me. I'd been up half the night drinking, had a headache and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Couldn't have cared less what his sister was saying about her stomach pain."

House used his cane to push himself to his feet. He ducked his head. "May I speak to my future former employee?"

Outside Cuddy's office, there was a seating area. The two security guards and Cuddy's assistant moved to the hall outside. House sat down. He pointed at the other chair. Chase sat.

"Great story," House said. He looked tired.

"You think I'm lying?" Chase said. "It's exactly what I told him."

"I'm sure it is," House said. "But you lied to him. You want him to sue you."

"I killed his sister!"

"Everybody screws up," House said. "I've seen you hung-over. You weren't the day you blew his sister's diagnosis."

"What does it matter why?" Chase asked. He was numb again. "Is she less dead if I have a good excuse?"

"If I thought you'd screwed up because you were drunk, I would have fired you."

"You knew?" Chase was bewildered. House couldn't know. Chase hadn't told anyone.

"You were depressed and distracted," House said. "I assumed you'd gotten a phone call from your stepmom." He paused. "Good news is, both your parents are dead now, so... no reason to screw up this bad again."

Chase was lost. He stared at House. The numbness felt as if it was fading. "How'd you know?" he whispered.

"There's this interconnected network of computers, or _interweb_, where you can - "

"How did you know to look?" Chase whispered.

House sighed. "When he visited, I saw he had lung cancer, and he told me he only had two months left. When you screwed up... I did the math."

Chase's head felt tight and his chest felt as if it was about to crack. His voice sounded funny. "Why didn't you tell me he was dying?"

"He asked me not to," House said.

"So you just hung me out there to be blindsided?" Chase couldn't tell whether he was going to cry or melt with fury.

"Yeah," House said. Sometimes his voice could be very soft. "it was all my fault. Look, you got a choice. You can either tell the truth, hospital settles, family gets some money, they get to keep their house. Or you can keep up this lie, family gets punitive damages, they buy a jet, they move to Park Avenue, and you have to find another career."

"You're not going to say anything?" Chase said faintly.

House shook his head. His voice was still very soft: in anyone else, Chase would have called it gentle. "I'm going to keep my head down and my mouth shut. It's better for me if you go down in flames."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson got an e-mail at four-thirty. Chase hadn't been near Diagnostics all day: Wilson waited till both Foreman and Chase had left, and went through to talk to Greg.

"When were you planning to tell me you have a disciplinary hearing tomorrow?"

Greg shrugged, barely moving. "Nothing to do with you. Anyway, I don't. Chase does."

"I've tagged you. You're under my care and control. I've been invited to audit the hearing."

Greg looked at him. He was still wearing his rolltop. Wilson pointed. "You won't wear that tomorrow. I want it clear to everyone you're mine. Do you realise what they could do to you if they decide Chase's failure is your responsibility?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "They'll whip me bloody. You'll get to watch. Then you'll get to have fun with me. And you wonder why I didn't tell you? There's only so much gloating I can stand."

"Is Warner giving you legal advice?"

"No," Greg said. "Just Chase. Anyway I never even met this patient."

"Your disdain for human interaction doesn't exculpate you, it inculpates you. You sign the charts, you're responsible for everything Chase does."

"I can't even take you back to my hotel room tonight," Wilson said.

"So you're saying you'll have to do without oral sex for one night? Imagine how much I care."

"You'll have to make do with the canteen food tonight," Wilson said, harshly. "Collect your meds at the pharmacy at 8pm, I'll warn them to expect you."

Chase was wearing his best suit and tie: Greg was being held between two massive security guards. Wilson was half-surprised that he had followed instructions: he looked an ordinary enough slave in blue jeans and white t-shirt, dark collar, silver tag. His head was bowed; he wasn't looking any of the committee in the eye.

Doctor Ferguson spoke in a measured way: "After considering the testimonial and documentary evidence, this ad hoc committee in the matter of Kayla McGinley has reached a decision. Doctor Chase, your error resulted in a patient's death. You also lied, both to your superiors and the patient's brother. But taking into account the mitigating factor of your father's death, we've decided not to revoke your privileges. You'll receive one week's suspension and a letter in your permanent file."

Chase looked both surprised and very relieved.

"Now as for Greg... there is no evidence of a failure to supervise that would lead to disciplinary action. And yet, there is enough in the record to be very troubled by your conduct."

Greg lifted his head. He looked startled to be spoken to.

"Including certain allegations of blackmail from members of the transplant team and by your general refusal to meet with your patients. It should be noted that your patient's cancer was diagnosed as the result of a direct physical examination."

Greg looked as if he would have liked to say something: he was biting his words back. The security guards tightened their grip on his arms: he swayed and flinched.

"The status of the Diagnostics department, with a supervisory department head having the legal status of chattel, is highly anomalous. This committee has determined that for no less than one month, Greg will have his practice supervised by another doctor, to be designated by Doctor Cuddy. This proceeding is adjourned."

The guards all but yanked Greg off his feet as they turned away. He was dead weight between them for an instant. Chase was getting up and thanking the committee politely and turning to go

Wilson knew he would have to stay, to make courteous goodbyes to the committee, to thank them for allowing him to audit. He hoped the guards would take their time getting Greg back to Diagnostics: he was looking forward to seeing Greg's expression as he found out who would be supervising him. Wilson would have enjoyed it, but he was no diagnostician: Foreman would keep Greg under stricter control... and Wilson would enjoy providing Greg with times of reprieve.

He met Warner outside: she gave him a long cold look and turned away. Apparently she had just discovered that Wilson had tagged Greg.

It didn't matter. Warner had long ago abandoned Greg: Greg was Wilson's, now.

_*tbc*_


	9. Deception

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee... _

_Sorry for delays, this turned into another llllong episode! Not sure when I'll be able to update again till November, I've got loads to do before Halloween... Enjoy, read, rec, review... RAL!  
_

**2.09 Deception**

Wilson was in time to watch. Doctor Cuddy had evidently dealt with Chase's suspension first. Cameron and Foreman were in Diagnostics, and Greg was being re-delivered there by the two guards who had escorted him to the disciplinary hearing: from the look on her face as she caught sight of Greg's tagged collar, Wilson thought Greg might have managed to hide it from her up till now.

"As the licensing board required, Doctor Foreman is supervising your practice for the next calendar month," Cuddy said.

As Wilson had thought, Greg hadn't expected that. He had, perhaps, expected Wilson, or Cuddy herself. There was an endearing moment when his head turned, involuntarily, to stare from one to the other.

"Doctor Foreman, effectively, this makes you acting head of Diagnostics, for one calendar month from now. Doctor Cameron, you and Doctor Chase should take any issues to Doctor Wilson or to myself: I'll talk to Chase about this when he returns from suspension. Greg. You understand that the disciplinary committee proposed this solution in part because it rectifies the anomaly of having a department head who is the property of the hospital. And, Doctor Foreman, please bear in mind: if there s a screw-up, it's your screw-up. You won t have Doctor House to fall back on.

There was a pause. Greg lifted his head: he had, apparently, been studying his cane, planted between his feet. "I understand," he said, very quietly. He looked at Foreman. "What are your orders? Boss?"

"I expect you here for grand rounds at nine," Foreman said. "I've informed the clinic that they'll be getting you for two shifts of two hours per day, which you will be completing at the Diagnostics department's convenience for the next month. If they're busy they'll contact me and I'll let them know if they can have your time for up to four hours more per day. You will come to me for your meds at 8am and I understand Doctor Wilson has made himself responsible for your meds at 8pm. And by the way, I like sugar in my coffee."

With a nod to Cuddy - he ignored Wilson - Foreman walked out. Cuddy looked after him, a faintly surprised expression on her face. "I only told him three hours ago," she said.

Cameron, left behind, looked as if she might cry. Wilson had the leash in his hand: he lifted it, signalling Greg, who looked at Wilson bleakly, but came to him.

Wilson simply handed the end of the leash to Greg to hold on the trip to the hotel. His car had central locking. Greg had been right: the leash wasn't really necessary. Wilson had found the shackles, if he had to leave the hotel bedroom during the evening, more useful. The hospital had bought twenty pairs of keyless wrist shackles specifically designed for Greg's wrists twelve years ago. Seven pairs had gone missing since - "They're more comfortable than the regular kind," the head of security explained to Wilson. "Used to get stolen. By perverts, or guys looking to sell to perverts. So we have security staff sign them out, one pair at a time." He'd let Wilson have a pair, eventually, on condition that he kept them in the hotel room's mini-safe when not in use.

In the hotel room Wilson unclipped the leash and ordered them food. By this time he knew how much to order, and what Greg would eat. He was looking forward to having his own apartment, to feeding Greg food he'd cooked himself.

Wilson gave him his meds; Greg ate, and lay down on the bed afterwards. He hadn't brought anything to read with him. He didn't twitch or protest in any way when Wilson lay down behind him and put an arm over Greg. Maybe now was the right time.

He pressed his mouth against the back of Greg's neck, and used his tongue to taste the salt skin there as he carefully worked Greg's jeans down.

He had cotton basics under his jeans - Wilson had seen them before, mass produced and bulk laundered. Wilson hooked his thumbs over the waistband and tugged down. His cock was rising, and he reminded himself again to go slow and careful, easy and gentle. Greg wasn't fighting, but he wasn't relaxed any more, either.

"All right?" Wilson asked.

"Sure. Fine." Greg's voice was very small.

Wilson reached for the condoms he'd left in the nightstand, and slid one on, expertly one-handed. He put his hand gently on to Greg's cock, and was vaguely startled to find it limp. Carefully, he enclosed the shaft with his palm, and felt him begin to harden, a velvet tremor. His own cock was snugged up between Greg's buttocks, it was just a question of finding the most comfortable angle, for Greg as well as for himself: a squeeze of lubricant and he'd slide right in.

"Don't," Greg said, in a small, thin voice.

Wilson hesitated. Greg wasn't fighting him at all, was barely tense: he was lying on his left side, so his right leg was as comfortable as it could be.

"Don't," Greg repeated. He turned his head into his arm. "Don't." He didn't sound as if he expected Wilson to pay attention to him.

Maybe now wasn't the right time.

"When did you last get fucked?" Wilson asked.

"Don't remember. End of July sometime."

"That long ago?" It was December. Nearly five months. Wilson was startled. He'd known Greg got sexually used by the security guards, but he hadn't wanted to know the details. He'd tagged Greg in front of two of them to make sure they knew Greg was now his, not publicly available.

Greg said nothing.

"Are you lying to me? Who fucked you in July?"

"Doctor Ayresman."

Wilson was really startled. Doctor Ayersman was a middle-aged, mediocre transplant surgeon, who had been multiply unfaithful to his now ex-wife with a succession of nurses, whose divorce had been messier than Wilson's.

"He has halitosis," Greg said after a moment. "I don't know why none of the nurses tell him."

"He hinted you blackmailed him into doing the transplant surgery," Wilson remembered, "but he clammed up when he was asked for details."

"I didn't blackmail him. I would if he hadn't decided to fuck me," Greg said, his voice sounding louder now. "But Plan A worked."

"His wife keyed his car. Big scene in the parking lot," Wilson remembered. "But you had nothing to do with that?"

"Actually," Greg said at length, "it is sort of cool." He rolled over, and Wilson let him: his erection was still demanding attention, but Greg seemed more relaxed now. "I promised him a blowjob before the operation and to let him fuck my ass afterward. He could just have got my mouth whenever he wanted, but I'd have fought like hell for my ass and he'd have had to explain the bite and scratchmarks to his wife and his current nurse. Then when I had my weekly STDs interview at the clinic I just made sure the nurse who got my list of who did what to me was Cutler, who's been Ayersman's main honeypot for months now. And _she_ sent an anonymous letter to his wife." Greg grinned, showing most of his teeth.

"You have to tell them ... everything you did?"

"Every week, everyone who gets messy with me. Especially if they don't use condoms." Greg said. He was still grinning. "Relax," he said. "You don't come out badly." He ducked his head and pushed his mouth on to Wilson's cock before Wilson could say anything: and after an instant, as usual, Wilson didn't want to do anything. Greg was good. He was so good. He seemed to wrap his throat round Wilson's cock.

"You're trying to deflect," Wilson said. He held Greg in his arms. His right hand could slide down and fondle, gently, the big scar whenever he wanted. He was feeling sleepy.

Greg nodded. "Works, doesn't it?" he said, and nothing else for the rest of the night.

Wilson's caseload picked up the day after: and Foreman's plan of rearranging Greg's clinic hours meant that he worked more of them, though Foreman did arrange for Greg to have time off from the clinic over Wilson's lunch break and in the afternoon for Greg to read his journals. Warner was, to Wilson's well-concealed relief, nowhere to be seen. Wilson made no further direct attempt to fuck Greg: he intended to be careful with him. and it was clear that Greg was scared and tense at the _idea_ of being fucked: no doubt other people had been less careful than Wilson in the past.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Foreman had figured this would be a more sensible way of spending Greg's time. Greg still, usually, did his first two-hour stint first thing in the morning, 8am to 10am, catching the clinic patients who came in before work. Foreman would assign his other shifts as necessary. It felt better organized. Foreman couldn't wait for their next patient.

The day before Chase returned to work, Greg came in from clinic duty with a patient file. He dropped it on to the table in front of Cameron.

"Hot babe, hanging out in OTB parlor, grand mal, inexplicable bruising."

"Where did you get that case?" Foreman demanded.

Greg shrugged. He sat down in the chair at the end of the table. "Could be one of the ER nurses you paid off, gave the file to me instead."

Foreman picked up the file. Cameron didn't contest it.

"Her platelets are 89, she's anemic, and she has a blood alcohol level of 0.13."

"Alcohol abuse explains it all," Foreman said. "Causes seizures and affects her blood's ability to clot, which causes bruising." He nodded to Greg. "Start her on heparin, she'll be fine by morning."

"Except for the fact that the bruises are not petechial, which means it s not DIC." Greg sounded quite sure of himself, which meant he'd already seen the patient.

"So the bruises were caused by trauma," Foreman said, eyeing Greg. "She probably got beat up by a boyfriend, or a pimp."

Greg looked back at him. His voice had all of Doctor House's familiar sarcastic arrogance. "What's that called when you judge someone before ever meeting them?"

Right now, and for the next month (and maybe longer: if Foreman could make Cuddy see this was more effective than letting a slave head up the department) Greg was a slave who belonged to Diagnostics, and while he had a right to speak up in the differential, Foreman didn't like that tone of voice in non-medical opinions. He was considering how to react when Cameron interrupted.

"It could be SLE, Familial Telangiectasia, or even Cushing's."

"Good," Greg said. "Start with those."

"Which one?" Cameron asked, fairly enough.

"Cushing's," Greg said. "Explains the seizure and the bruising."

"Not the anemia," Foreman pointed out.

"So she doesn't eat a lot of meat," Greg shrugged.

"DIC brought on by alcohol abuse is far more likely," Foreman said. He stood up. He intended to consult with Cuddy before he took any action. "Do a full workup, H and P, and lab her up, LP, MRI - "

Cameron got to her feet. Foreman waved her down again. "Greg's going to do the workup. Greg, I'll contact the clinic and let them know Diagnostics has a case and you'll be busy up here till four. You can turn over the medical history to myself and Cameron then, and go do two more clinic hours after that."

Foreman had been consciously thinking of Greg as Greg - a slave who was the property of the Diagnostics department - for the past six days. Seven days. Since Doctor Cuddy told him he would have Greg to supervise for a month. He was suddenly conscious - and kept his face impassive - that this was Doctor House standing across the room from him: a world-famous doctor in three specialities, one of which was his own creation. Doctor House leaned on his cane and studied Foreman for a few seconds that seemed long. He didn't smile or act servile, as Foreman had seen him do to other hospital staff with authority over him: he said, crisp and sarcastic, "Yes, boss," and turned to leave.

Foreman didn't have time for Cameron, right then. He wanted to talk to Cuddy. And then he had a shopping trip to make. There was a store near the hospital that sold disciplinary items, and Foreman had confirmed in the hospital regulations: any department head could discipline any slave who was the property of that department, providing the discipline did not require a period spent in the slave recovery ward. Foreman was no expert, but the store owner should be helpful. He didn't intend to hurt Greg. Just make it clear to him who was boss.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cameron was happy to see Chase back, the next morning: he was brewing up coffee and he'd brought in a box of bearclaws and bagels. They hugged hello and Chase said cheerfully "So, how have things been with Foreman in charge? Do we have a patient?"

"We do," Cameron said. "She came in from an OTB with seizures and bruising. Greg calls her 'hot OTB babe'" - you had to know what Greg called a patient, because he hardly ever remembered their real names "and Foreman said she was probably an alcoholic, but Greg ran an MRI and an LP and a series of labs - "

"Whoa," Chase said. "_Greg_ did? You mean _Doctor House_?"

Cameron was jolted. She did, habitually, refer to Greg as Doctor House, inside Diagnostics where she was normally required to, and outside Diagnostics just because it was simpler. But in the past week, Foreman hadn't referred to Greg as anything but Greg - and Cuddy had made clear that for a month, Foreman was in charge. In charge of _Greg_, not of _her_, though: if anything, she had seniority over him. Why had she let Foreman's use of Greg's name affect her use of 'Doctor House'?

Chase was grinning, faintly. "Hot OTB babe?"he said, subject changed back to patient. "Obviously a working girl, probably an STD, infection."

"She isn't running a fever, and the labs that are back show no infections. She doesn't have an STD. Doctor House did an MRI and an LP - he wasn't good at it and he scared her into a hypertensive crisis - "

"Whoa," Chase said, again. "I've seen House do an LP. He's smooth. If he was making a mess of it yesterday, either something's wrong with him or he was getting it wrong on purpose. Was he trying to make trouble for Foreman?"

Cameron shrugged, baffled. "He claimed the hypertensive crisis proved she had regrown a tumor on her pituitary gland, but the MRI showed no tumor. Foreman told him to put her on a Librium taper for the withdrawal and get her a bed in the rehab clinic."

"What if the tumor is somewhere else? There could be an ACTH-secreting tumor on her lung or pancreas," Chase suggested.

"It's awfully rare," Cameron said thoughtfully.

"Not as rare as an invisible tumor," Chase said.

"Why didn't they put you in charge instead of Foreman?" Greg said from the doorway. Cameron spun, guiltily: she wondered how long he'd been there. Greg limped into the room, eyeing Chase. "Oh yeah, you're the guy that killed that woman."

Chase glanced at his watch. "You're not in the clinic?"

"Now I remember why I hired you: for your astounding observational skills. Patient's in rehab despite no evidence of alcohol addiction. Go find her, and run a pan-man scan before she dies of cortisol OD."

"Foreman has to supervise your practice," Cameron pointed out.

"He doesn't have to supervise Chase's. Go do it."

Chase shrugged, toasted Greg with his coffee mug, and said "Nice to have you back." He picked out a bearclaw from the box and shoved it across the table to Greg. "Let's go."

Cameron was thinking. Chase said "Lungs look clean. Pilar lymph nodes not enlarged."

"Cuddy tapped Foreman to run the department. I didn t even get asked."

"Neither did I."

"You were suspended," Cameron pointed out. She had been making a serious complaint. It hadn't occurred to her till their patient came in, but she was senior to Foreman in the department: Cuddy should, at least, have_ asked_ her.

"I was kidding," Chase said.

"It's the irony of women in charge; they don't like other women in charge."

Chase looked at her and made a noise of amused disbelief.

"What, you think it's something else?"

"You sabotaged _yourself_," Chase said. "You went on a 'date' with Greg, you slept with me. Cuddy wouldn't put you in charge of this department any more than she'd put Doctor Wilson in charge now he's tagged Greg. Like a kid in a candy store."

"Yeah, they're really worried that I'm going to create a hostile work environment."

"Maybe that's the problem," Chase offered, half seriously, Cameron thought. "Being in charge means having to say no to House. Would you hire you for that?"

There was no one in the conference room when they got back, but Foreman was in Doctor House's cubbyhole - they could hear him through the walls, talking, but not the words. He glanced at them and shut up: Cameron opened the door and walked in, Chase following her.

"Scans showed a mass on her pancreas," Cameron said. She glanced round, anywhere but at the silver tag hanging from Greg's - House's - collar. She hadn't looked closely at it, but she knew what it had to say. Wilson had tagged Greg.

"Looks malignant, probably inoperable. I'd give her two months," Chase confirmed. He too was glancing round: the desk, the computer, the office chair, the guitar case leaning against one wall: Cameron could have told him, nothing had changed. Whatever Wilson was doing for Greg, didn't include providing him with any prohibited luxuries for his cubbyhole.

"On the bright side," House said, with a thin-lipped grin at Foreman, "it still means I was right."

Foreman's face stayed expressionless. "Cameron, can you explain to Anica what her situation is and get her to sign the consent for a biopsy? Chase - "

"Why don't I find something else to do, not here?" Chase said, lifting his eyebrows. "Fine."

"Book an OR for the biopsy," Foreman said. He looked at House. "Greg will assist you."

House lifted his chin and looked back at Foreman. "Sure, boss."

Cameron came back from talking to Anica, walking slower as she got to the Diagnostics room. She stopped by Doctor Wilson's door, and knocked.

It had started snowing, Cameron saw: the heavy clouds darkened the sky, but Wilson's window on to his balcony was lined in white, and drifts were forming on the balcony. She had her own ideas about why Anica had reacted like that, but mostly she wanted to talk with Wilson.

"It was weird. She barely reacted at all."

Wilson sat back in his chair. He was looking at Cameron thoughtfully. "I've had people hug me and people take a swing at me."

"This was more like she didn't even hear me." Cameron gathered a breath. "Can I have a word with you in confidence?"

"Of course."

"It's about Greg."

"Then no." Wilson went on looking at Cameron. "Do you actually think Anica's non-reaction is symptomatic?"

"It doesn't fit Cushing's," Cameron said. Cameron said, distracted. She had come up with a theory, and thought it worked. "But it would fit Munchausen's."

"You think she did this to herself?" Wilson looked mildly startled.

"The mass on her pancreas _could_ be scarring caused by injecting herself with a benzene and setting off the seizures."

Wilson looked unconvinced. "Even if that's true," he said, "why are you telling me?" He swept his hand towards the door. "I deal with people who actually _have_ something wrong with them." He added flatly, "And outside Diagnostics, Greg is none of your business, Doctor Cameron."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Greg had been assigned clinic hours after he finished assisting Chase with the biopsy. Wilson had booked him in for a health check.

He had discovered the STDs list; he hadn't known it existed, presumably because he'd never had an STD and transmitted it to a slave at the hospital: every slave at the hospital had to report sexual contacts within a week, and some slaves had regular weekly appointments. Greg was one of them.

"Please take your clothes off," Wilson said.

Greg stopped, just inside the door. He looked at Wilson.

"I suppose pointing out this isn't professional wouldn't stop you."

"It wouldn't be professional for me to have sex with you," Wilson said. "I'm not going to do that." He let that sink in. "Now, take your clothes off, put on that exam gown, and sit down on the table."

Greg didn't move.

After a moment, Wilson sighed. "Fine. I'll call security and have them take your clothes off and restrain you so I can carry out the procedures." He waited.

Greg reacted, finally. He was awkward about disrobing, and slow, but Wilson didn't rush him.

Greg sat on the edge of the exam table. He put the cane down on the table, within reach of his hand: Wilson frowned at it, but left it there. Greg folded his hands in his lap and stared across the room.

Wilson took a blood draw. He filled enough vials to do all the tests he could think of and then a few more. He set the carrier down out of reach. "Round your back," he instructed, tucking his stethoscope into his ears. Greg's heart rate was elevated, but not abnormally. His lungs sounded normal. "Try to calm down," Wilson instructed. "It's just a physical." He took Greg's BP - a little high, going with the tension Wilson could feel in Greg's muscles.

He checked Greg's height and weight, confirming what he'd thought: Greg was underweight for a man his height and age, which given how muscular he was, suggested a consistent pattern of underfeeding. "Got to get you on to a regular diet," Wilson murmured.

He went through the standard procedures, touch, cough: palpate Greg's liver and gut: he checked Greg's knees and ankles (sound) "You follow the PT regime?"

"If I don't, Cuddy has me whipped," Greg said.

Wilson nodded. He felt that odd pleasant twinge in his gut, but it was muted, like it would be if he were examining any sexually attractive patient. He had got to a point where Greg's body was a patient's to him.

He checked the rotatory and extension functions of Greg's arms: left, normal: right, a little tender. Good muscular development. "Do you find your right arm aches after a long day? Maybe you should consider switching to elbow crutches?"

"Too easy to knock me over," Greg said.

Wilson nodded, making a note: he would suggest elbow crutches to the slave PT specialist, though he supposed it was of no use if the slave was determined to be non-compliant. "Sit back on the table and spread your legs."

Greg sat still. His legs pressed closer together, the two bony feet crossing over each other.

"You don't need to examine the equipment. You do that every night."

"I don't do it as a physician," Wilson said calmly. "Full physical. I can still call security if you're not going to cooperate."

Greg remained where he was. He shook his head. "You don't need - "

"Just do it, Greg," Wilson said. He waited. When Greg didn't move, Wilson shook his head, sighed, and went to the phone. He had actually pressed the button to speak to the security station when he heard Greg say, in a small thin voice, "Okay - fine - " Wilson glanced round. Greg had positioned himself.

Wilson took his time apologizing and explaining to the security station, before he went back to Greg. Wilson made his examination of the testicles and penis medical, detached. "Good," he said finally. "Now, get off the table - " He degloved, and helped Greg move as he directed. Greg's face had closed-off. He couldn't bear weight on his right leg alone, so Wilson positioned him over the table, belly down. He picked up a tube of gel, regloved, and rested his right hand on Greg's buttocks. "Relax," he said gently. "You know I have to do this." He used a smear of the gel on his forefinger and opened up Greg's anus.

He had expected to feel damage, scarring: tenderness at least. But his finger went in cleanly: not easily (Greg was tight) but smoothly, a normal healthy anus.

The public list of sexual contacts for each slave didn't include names of free people, only identification of other slaves. There must be another, password-protected list. The free people were listed by gender and number. A lot of men had had Greg in the past five years. But either they had all been as careful as Wilson meant to be, or Greg had been very good at deflecting them to blowjobs.

Wilson found the prostate gland: it felt healthy. "Cough," he told Greg, and held his finger there. "Good."

He withdrew and degloved. "Good. You can get dressed now." Greg was faster back into his clothes than he had been out of them. He picked up his cane and Wilson shook his head. "We're not done."

He checked out Greg's mouth and throat: healthy and clean. There was a tooth missing in back of the right hand jaw, but it was obviously an old injury.

"You're in good shape," Wilson said.

"Thanks," Greg said. He sounded as if he were trying to sound sarcastic. "All done? I can go now?"

"Yes, we're done for now. This counted against your clinic hours, by the way. I discussed it with Foreman, explained I thought you needed a thorough physical."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Greg paged Foreman from the clinic. It was some time after Wilson's physical should have finished: Foreman went down unhurriedly. Greg was in Exam Room 1 with a female patient. She was sitting up, pulling down her clothes after a gyne: unexpectedly, Foreman noticed a jar of strawberry jelly sitting on the exam table.

"What's up?" Foreman asked.

"Smell this," Greg said. He waved the swab in Foreman s face. "Smells like vaginosis, but it's not really my call." His voice was properly diffident and servile.

Foreman stared at Greg in disbelief: in front of the clinic patient, in the middle of Greg's working hours, there was nothing he could do: but did Greg suppose Foreman would just forget about it? "Great," he said slowly. "I'll be sure to put a gold star by your name on the board. Anica s biopsy for pancreatic cancer was negative. Come up to Diagnostics when you're done with this patient, we'll run another DDX." He turned and walked out again.

Greg looked at Foreman, standing by the whiteboard, and dropped into the nearest chair at the table.

Foreman cleared his throat. "Good news, she's not sick at all. Other than being an alcoholic."

Greg lifted his chin. His voice was cold and precise. He was Doctor House, and Foreman knew it. "The labs you sent yesterday put her ACTH at 64 picograms per milliliter. She's got Cushing's, something set it off. It's got to be in her brain. Set her up for a venous sampling."

Chase stood up, reacting to Doctor House: Cameron glanced at Greg, glanced at Foreman, and said "There is another possibility."

"Chase, hold on," Foreman ordered.

Chase stopped, halfway out of his chair. He sat back down.

"How'd you get him trained so fast?" Greg asked. "Electronic collar? Got treats in your pocket?"

"She didn t even read the consent form for the pancreatic biopsy," Cameron said, ignoring Greg. Foreman was surprised and pleased.

"Who reads those things?" Chase said dismissively.

"Maybe she didn't read it because she knew there was nothing wrong with her. There is another explanation for the Cushing's; maybe she injected herself with the ACTH. Her behavior suggests Munchausen's. She's had four hospitalizations in the last four months."

"Well, being hospitalized a lot _certainly_ points to nothing being wrong with you," Greg said sarcastically. But he had lost his certain tone of command.

"She's had zero symptoms since she got here," Cameron went on. "The scarring on her pancreas could be caused by injecting herself with a benzene and setting off the seizures."

"She's had brain surgery," Greg said, dismissively. "You can fake a stomach ache; you can't fake a brain tumor."

"You can fake an invisible one," Cameron said, more and more surely. "We should check her apartment. Look for medications, syringes - "

"Venous sampling's easier," Greg said.

"And more dangerous," Foreman cut in. Munchausen's was an interesting diagnosis, and there was at this point exactly the same evidence for it as for Cushing's: none, directly. "I'll get the patient's keys and her consent: Cameron, you and Chase search her home."

"Should I go back to the clinic? Boss?"

"No," Foreman said. "Stay here, read up on Munchausen's, look through the patient's records."

He came back in ten minutes: Greg was through in his cubbyhole, at his computer. He looked up from the screen, and blinked at Foreman.

Foreman put the riding crop he'd bought that morning down on Greg's desk. Greg looked at it, and up at Foreman.

"You do know this is temporary?" he said after a moment. "Whatever you do to me this month, I'll be your boss next month - "

"I confirmed two things with Cuddy this morning, before I bought this," Foreman said, precisely. "You've been acting up. I've already warned you I won't tolerate it. The first thing is that if this works out, it doesn't have to be temporary. You're a lot of trouble for Doctor Cuddy: she'd be grateful to anyone who ... alleviated that for her."

Greg swallowed, once. His collar moved slightly, against his throat. His voice was very steady. "And the second?"

"That you won't be allowed to fire me for anything I do that's within my remit as acting head of Diagnostics." He picked up the crop again and tapped it, briefly, against the veneer of the desk, amused by how Greg's head moved to follow it, his eyes blinking at the sound it made. The man who owned the store had demonstrated how to use it on one of his slaves, and let Foreman try it out: Foreman was confident that he could administer discipline with it correctly. "This... is well within my remit."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Greg was by himself in the Diagnostics conference room. - _Doctor House_ - Cameron reminded herself fiercely, she was almost upset at the habit she had fallen into after only one week of Foreman's influence - He was using Chase's laptop. When Cameron walked in, he looked up, almost warily, but didn't say anything: he just looked at her, with frosty blue eyes.

"Why do you think Cuddy picked Foreman over me?" Cameron said suddenly. "Have I done something wrong or if there's something I needed to improve on..."

Doctor House almost grinned: he seemed relaxed. His voice was faintly sarcastic. "If I tell you I'd recommend you to Cuddy right now, to replace Foreman from now on for the rest of the month, will you shut up?"

_Would you?_ Cameron nearly asked, but had sense to see what House was getting at: like Chase, he assumed she would be a pushover. Well, she wouldn't. "How would you describe my leadership skills?" she asked.

"Nonexistent," House said immediately. "Otherwise, excellent."

"There's more to being a leader than being a jerk!" Cameron snapped.

House really did grin. "The world will never know." He turned Chase's laptop around and Cameron saw that he'd been reading up on Munchausen s: there were a dozen or more relevant tabs open.

"Did you find what you were looking for in hot OTB babe's apartment?"

"Yes," Cameron said. "There's even books in the bathroom."

"So either she's very smart or she has a severe fiber deficiency. Or maybe both."

"She's got an appointment with her ophthalmologist on Tuesday and an appointment with her gynecologist on Thursday. Multiple appointments with multiple doctors, symptom of Munchausen's."

"Or, just thinking outside the box, here," Doctor House said, "she has a vagina, and trouble reading. How many pairs of reading glasses did you find?"

Cameron stared. "Three, but ... "

"All with different prescriptions?"

"I didn't check, but - "

" - which would be explained by a tumor pressing on the optic nerve." Greg really sounded intolerably sure of himself.

"Because you're _looking_ for her to have a tumor," Cameron said. She looked up and saw Foreman in the doorway, Chase coming up behind him. Greg hadn't noticed them yet.

"And you are looking for Munchausen's!" Greg snapped. "A person with Munchausen's syndrome drinks battery acid; they don't go to an ophthalmologist to get their pupils dilated."

"An ophthalmologist is a doctor," Cameron said calmly. "Attention is attention."

"How many hospitals have you contacted?" Greg snapped. "Has _one_ doctor said she's crazy? It's _not_ Munchausen's!"

"It's not your call," Cameron said, and stood back, folding her arms and looking directly at Foreman.

Greg turned his head and looked at Foreman and Chase. He spoke to Cameron, though he wasn't looking at her. "If you think she s got Munchausen's then obviously you've got something to show the man! A syringe in her apartment, a bottle of ACTH."

Foreman came in and sat down at the conference table. He put his hand on Chase's laptop and turned it to face him, before turning the screen to Greg again with a silent nod of approval. "Munchausen's patients are good at covering their tracks."

"Oh, right," Greg said, still at a pitch of annoyance, "so the fact that you found nothing proves that there's something."

"Look at the pathology reports from the surgery she had in Chicago," Cameron said. She had. "They removed 30% of her pituitary, they found no tumor!"

Foreman nodded thoughtfully, but said "It's possible the surgeons just missed it. In that kind of surgery, you're just cutting and hoping - "

Greg interrupted. "Of course! We're both right! Excellent solution. Everybody's happy. Come on, step up, Foreman. If you think I'm right, order me to stick a needle in her brain, and if you think Cameron s right, send the patient home: either she'll be fine or she'll die."

"Chase, do the venous sampling," Foreman said tersely, never taking his eyes off Greg. "Cameron, get her consent. Greg, go put in some more clinic hours."

"Nice move, boss," Doctor House said. "Way to cover your ass."

Cameron rolled her eyes and walked out. She stopped by the pharmacy to collect a scrip of rifampin, and asked the pharmacist to print on the label Dangerous: Might cause seizures." The pharmacist protested "That's not a side-effect," and Cameron shook her head. "Could be, for this patient."

She got Anica to sign the consent form for the biopsy - and provoked her into calling Cameron names. It made a good excuse for why she "forgot" the bottle of rifampin.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

When Foreman sent Greg back to the clinic, Wilson rang a nearby optician and booked an eye test in their next free slot that afternoon.

"Yes, sir: how long is it since your last eye exam?"

"It's not for me," Wilson said, and smiled at the telephone, getting a pleasant buzz just from thinking the words. "It's for my slave."

The voice at the other end of the line grew disenchanted. "Very good, sir. You'll have to accompany the slave at all times."

"That's fine," Wilson said. He had intended to do so, even though this meant moving his usual visit to paediatric oncology up by a couple of hours.

Wilson collected Greg from the clinic and led him to a waiting cab, clipping the leash on just as they passed through the hospital doors: Greg was very quiet on the floor of the cab, and when Wilson reached a hand down to check, his face was cold.

"All right?" Wilson queried, as the cab halted in front of the optical store.

Greg looked up. He was frowning. "This isn't your hotel," he said in a very small voice, as Wilson paid the driver and picked up the leash.

"No, you're going for an eye examination," Wilson said.

"There's nothing wrong with my eyes," Greg said. He sounded genuinely surprised - startled blank - and Wilson grinned, pleased. "We'll leave that to the ophthalmologist, shall we?"

The ophthalmologist did not appear very pleased to have a patient who was collared and on a leash: she spoke to Wilson brusquely, and to Greg, not at all. But she ran through a thorough eye exam, and confirmed - as Wilson had thought - that Greg had presbyopia and needed reading glasses.

"Though it's doubtful that your insurance will pay for them," she told Wilson. "Unless he's required to read as part of his work?"

"Yes," Wilson said. "What strength does he need?"

"Right now? 1.5 diopters. Have him reassessed in a couple of years, if you still own him then. By that time he'll probably need 2.5 diopters, and if reading is essential to his use, your insurance company should pay at that point - some won't pay below 3 diopters, but he's presumably a valuable slave."

"I'll buy him a pair now," Wilson said. "In fact - two pairs." One for the hospital, one for home. He chose a pair with simple plain steel frames for the hospital, and another with elegant silver frames that made Greg's face look handsome, oddly fragile.

"We can fit with a chain that you can attach to his collar," the sales assistant told Wilson, who shook his head. "Not necessary."

In the cab on the way back to the hospital, Wilson handed Greg the case with the plainer pair. "If anyone takes them or breaks them, you tell me, right away."

"Yes," Greg muttered. He looked and sounded exhausted. Wilson glanced at his watch. There was still nearly an hour of his clinic time to go, and a couple of hours before Wilson would ordinarily be leaving the hospital.

"I'll tell the clinic desk you're done for the afternoon," he told Greg. "I'll come and get you by six, we'll go home and I'll get you something to eat."

"Yes, sir," Greg murmured, and leaned his head against Wilson's knee.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Greg was in the clinic. Or maybe Wilson was running some more tests on him. Foreman had got an e-mail with a list of the blood tests Doctor Wilson had asked for the Diagnostics slave: one look at the list had made Foreman's mouth curl. Wilson wanted Greg checked out for every possible STD, plus a few more blood-transmitted infections. He thought that Greg was in for an interesting time when Wilson finally got all the results back, and replied to the e-mail with a brief suggestion that the testing labs expedite Doctor Wilson's request.

Cameron came in. She looked odd, Foreman thought: somehow triumphant and distressed at the same time. Foreman shut his laptop down and asked "Patient being prepped for the venous sampling?

"Yeah," Cameron said. "Mentally ill patient is right on track for a pointless procedure."

"Yeah," Foreman echoed her, "we get your objection."

The phone rang just then. A nurse from the ward. "Doctor Foreman, the patient's urine has turned orange."

"Are you sure?" Foreman glanced over at the whiteboard. "That doesn't make any sense, check it again." The patient had received no medication that would have that side-effect, and the hospital food wouldn't normally do it - in any case, the nurse would have noticed if there were multiple patients with orange urine - He put the phone down without saying _thanks_ and without noticing that he hadn't, and said to Cameron and chase "We got to delay the venous sample."

"Why?" Cameron asked. Her air of triumph increased. "Her urine turning orange?"

"How would you know that?" Foreman asked. He was astounded for a moment, but then common-sense reasserted itself: Cameron had never shown any indication of being able to predict zebras.

"Because that s what rifampin does," Cameron told them, and Foreman nodded.

"She's not on antibiotics," Chase said: he evidently hadn't got it.

"But if a Munchausen's patient thinks she's about to get busted, she sees pills labeled 'Dangerous: Might cause seizures,' she might grab a couple. And if that label were accidentally on a bottle of antibiotics and if that bottle was accidentally left in her room - "

"You set her up," Foreman interrupted. He got it.

"Might have," Cameron said nonchalantly. "It's Munchausen's. All this, she did to herself."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cameron was walking back to the pharmacy on the Diagnostics floor to return the rest of the rifampin scrip she had "accidentally" requested, still pleased with herself - Foreman had conceded the point, Anica would be discharged in a couple of hours, unless she chose to admit herself for psychiatric help - when she heard something odd from the bathroom. It was the one fitted with a shower that Doctor House used sometimes.

She paused by the door and listened: then opened it quietly. The noise was clear with the door open. Someone was vomiting in the toilet cubicle. Cameron closed the door quietly. As she had half-feared, Greg - _Doctor House_ - was kneeling, throwing up, over the toilet. His cane had fallen beside him: when she came in he made a convulsive grab for it, but could not stop vomiting.

When he was done, Cameron had wet some paper towels and wiped his face. He let her for a moment, his face slackening in tiredness, and then pushed himself to his feet and his face went up, out of her reach.

"Are you sick?"

Doctor House grimaced. "I'm in very good shape," he said, sounding tired. He lurched over to one of the sinks and washed his mouth out, spitting into the urinal. "I have that on good authority. What are you doing in here?"

"Are you ill?" Cameron asked.

"No," Doctor House said. "And I'm not bulimic. Everyone throws up sometimes. Can we move on to our actual patient? The one who's actually sick?"

"No, she's not," Cameron said. "It's Munchausen's. Foreman's discharging her."

"We can't discharge her, she's sick. How did you convince Foreman? Was it the orange urine?"

Cameron stared.

Doctor House shook his head impatiently. "What? You got rifampin from the pharmacy, with a special label that might just as well have said EAT ME to our Alice."

"Anica," Cameron corrected absently. "You _knew_ it was Munchausen's?"

"Your diagnosis was correct, but not complete. At the end of 'The Boy Who Cried Wolf,' the wolf really does come, and he eats the sheep, and the boy, and his parents."

"The wolf doesn't eat the parents!"

"It does when I tell it," Doctor House said, with a strange grin. He sobered up. "I checked her records. All her hospitalizations were for different things. Brain tumor, fainting spells, skin rashes, seizures... she's had every blood test known to man and the results are all over the map. There's only one constant, low HCT. The anemia's real."

"There's a million things she could have taken to have done that," Cameron protested.

"True. Could just be her MO. She self-induces two illnesses, one always changes, one never does. Or maybe she has Munchausen's and aplastic anemia, which would mean without proper treatment she'd continue to get sicker, weaker; eventually she'll start bleeding internally and die."

"She's not getting sicker," Cameron said.

"She will!" Doctor House snapped. "If this hospital kicks her to the curb with a Munchausen's diagnosis, you're guaranteeing that no doctor will ever listen to her again."

"If we do more tests, we'll only be feeding her psychosis." Cameron looked compassionately at him, looking strangely wobbly on his feet, and said, gently, "It's not your call. You were wrong. If you go back to your room, I'll get you a soft drink." Chase was wrong: she could say 'no' to House.

When she got back to the cubbyhole with a bottle of ginger ale, the Eames chair was empty: Greg was gone.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson picked up the leash and walked down the hall to Diagnostics, expecting to find Greg by himself: he knew their patient had been discharged. Instead he walked into a fourway argument: Greg was standing by the whiteboard, looking arrogantly at his three fellows - they all looked as if they had been interrupted in the middle of going home.

"So, barely out the door and she has another seizure," Foreman said. He glanced and saw Wilson, and shook his head.

"She must have somehow grabbed insulin on the way out," Chase said.

"Once she's stable we need to get her out of here, before she does more damage to herself," Cameron said.

"We can't," Foreman said. He sounded exasperated. "Her white count's down."

"Sorry, I missed that," Greg said. He grinned. "My hearing's been off all day, maybe I should have someone run a pointless test on me."

"White count, hematocrit and platelets are all off," Foreman said. He pulled off his coat and hung it over the back of a chair. Melting snow dripped on to the floor. "None of us are going home," he added, and to Wilson, dismissively, "Sorry, Doctor Wilson. The bone marrow's shutting down, she actually _has_ aplastic anemia."

"Say what?" Greg cupped his hand over his ear.

"All her other labs show nothing that - " Cameron said.

"Labs schmabs," Greg said. He looked entirely too pleased wth himself. "A good diagnostician reads between the labs."

Foreman walked over to the whiteboard, and faced Greg. "You were right."

"Hey, hey, hey," Greg chanted. "We're not here to play the blame game. These things happen. Sometimes doctors send people out on the street to die after other doctors warned them that they were sending them out on the street to die. There s no way you could know."

"I'll go give her the news," Foreman said. "Cameron, Chase - we need to set up the radiation treatment and the sterile room. Greg, you can go finish your clinic hours for today, but you can't leave the hospital - we may need to run another DDX."

"Yes, Boss," Greg snapped off a lazy, insolent salute, half at Foreman, half at Wilson. He wandered out of the door, grinning at Wilson as he passed.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The sterile room and the radiation chamber were not in use: Doctor Wilson agreed to stay and help them set it up. He was good with dangerously ill patients, speaking to Anica patiently and gently. Cameron was relieved: while she accepted that Anica was genuinely ill, after all their patient had said to her once she realized Cameron was on to her Munchausen's, she didn't think she could have been or sounded so sympathetic.

Greg came through the door faster than Cameron had ever seen him move before. He looked white - as white as he had looked after vomiting, pale and shaken.

"Turn it off," he snapped. He sounded like Doctor House, but he looked like Greg. He looked _scared_.

Foreman sounded exasperated. "Now what?" He reached for the safety cut-off, though, and switched it off.

"How long has she been in there?" Greg said. He sounded frightened. No, he sounded _appalled_.

"Three minutes," Doctor Wilson said, "What's going on?"

"She doesn't have aplastic anemia," Greg said. He was beginning to look like Doctor House again. "She has an infection."

"No," Cameron said. "Her white count would be through the roof, hers is on the floor."

Greg glanced at her - a wide-eyed look, really still afraid. "The body does crazy things."

Foreman shook his head. He was, if anything, _more_ exasperated. "The body does crazy things. Well, that explains everything!"

"She had no fever," Chase pointed out. He was curiously neutral, as if this didn't affect him. He was watching Greg closely, Cameron realized: eyeing the tension in his hands and his left leg.

Doctor House lifted his chin and said, arrogantly, his face closed-off and distant, as if he were delivering a lecture to medical students he didn't like very much. "Because her self-inflicted Cushing's suppressed her immune system, stopped her from having a fever, hid the infection. Clostridium perfringens could cause the bruising, the schistocytes, the anemia..."

"Explains everything except the white count," Chase said neutrally.

"Augmentin is a lot safer than destroying her immune system, why don't we try that?" Doctor House said.

"Whoa!" Foreman said. He stood up and turned to look Greg over, his eyes raking him down. "_You're_ taking the safe course? What's going on?"

"There's lots of explanations for low white count," Doctor House said. But he had flinched when Foreman stood up.

"Name one that fits her case," Cameron said.

"I was checking her room," Greg said, and just like that, he looked like Greg: his chin was lifted, his expression closed-off, but he looked like a slave who expected to be punished. Cameron didn't want to ask any more questions. "I, uh, happened to smell her bedding. She smells grapey. Sweet. That says infection. The low white count, well, I figured that she got her hands on colchicine, and just, ah, self-medicated. She would have gotten sicker when I said she was going to get sicker except Cameron dosed her with antibiotics."

"That's brilliant of her," Foreman said slowly, sarcastically. "Take the exact medication that would confirm your diagnosis."

"People do crazy things," Greg said.

"You injected her against her will just so you could be right," Foreman said heavily.

"She consented," Greg said.

"She s mentally ill!" Foreman shouted.

Greg flinched. He lifted his chin and his voice was level, though surprisingly small. "She smells oh, so sweet."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Foreman asked Chase and Cameron to take Anica from the sterile room and start her on antibiotics for the infection. "We're going back to Diagnostics," he told Greg, and added "Would you walk with me, Doctor Wilson?"

None of them said anything. Greg was walking slowly, but Foreman decided he wasn't being insolent, just recovering from what must have been a gruelling dash from Anica's room to the radiation chamber. Foreman was alone with his thoughts.

_I'd like to run the department. I can do it._

_Except for the part where Greg went behind my back and KO'd the patient with insulin and colchicine._

_There was no reason to suspect an infection. Even House didn't think it was an infection. Any doctor would have done the same thing I did._

_And any doctor would be just as wrong. What Greg did was insane. But he saved her life._

_He got lucky._

_He gets lucky a lot._

_I've got nearly three more weeks in charge. The next case will go better._

"Through here," Foreman said. He glanced round. The reclining chair wasn't a perfect height, but it would mean Greg's right leg was well-supported. "Doctor Wilson, you're entitled to witness this, but not to intervene." He picked up the riding crop. "Take your shirt off, Greg, and kneel down by your chair: belly over the ottoman."

There was a small, frozen silence. Greg must have known this moment was coming: his eyes stayed fixed on Foreman, getting wider. He didn't turn his gaze to Wilson, he didn't beg Wilson to intervene: he just stood there for a long cold instant, and then, slowly, he put his cane down on his chair and began to peel his t-shirt off. He bent down slowly and positioned himself over the ottoman, as Foreman had directed.

"She should have died," Foreman said, measured. "You are not a hero, Greg. A person who has the guts to break a bad rule, they're a hero. You don't break rules, you ignore them. You're an anarchist. All you stand for is the right for everyone to grab whatever they want, whenever they want. You tell doctors that's okay, your mortality rate is going to go through the roof. I'm going to give you six strokes of the crop and you will count them and thank me for each one. If you omit either a count or thanks, I will repeat the stroke." The man in the store had advised this as a measure of ensuring that the punishment sank into a stubborn slave without using extreme force.

He glanced at Wilson. The other doctor looked... almost eager, Foreman realized with a sudden twinge of worry. Was he projecting? He didn't think so. Wilson's expression disappeared into a pleasant smile. Foreman walked over to the door, rather than speak to Wilson, and turned the light up as brightly as it would go. He was repeating the storekeeper's instructions in his mind, following them through, and he was standing over Greg, looking down at the bony, white back curled over the footrest. Greg's head was tucked down. Foreman could count his vertebrae. But his shoulders were well-muscled: Foreman would need to be careful and strike accurately.

There were odd shadows on Greg's back. Foreman stared down at them, trying to make sense of what he saw.

Lines on the skin. Scars. Old marks, and new. The lines overlapped each other, crossed each other. There was not one part of Greg's back in the safe area - above where whipping might bruise internal organs - that was not covered with the lapping scars. Some were fresher than others: the lines had been renewed. Over and over and over again.

"Get on with it," Greg said finally. He actually sounded angry, even though his voice was cracking. "_One._"

"I can't do it," Foreman said, flatly. "I _won't_ do it. Get up. Put your shirt back on."

"What?" Both Wilson and Greg spoke simultaneously.

Foreman kept his voice flat. "You've _been_ whipped. I can see on your back how often you're been whipped. It hasn't taught you anything. I don't see any point in repeating it, if it doesn't work." His hand fell to his side. The riding crop had been expensive. "I'll assign you a heavier clinic load for the next three days: you'll work twelve hours, eight to eight. I don't suppose that'll teach you the lesson you need either, but at least it'll be functional." He glanced at Doctor Wilson. "And you'll spend tonight and the following three nights here in the hospital. Doctor Wilson, I'm aware you have him tagged, but I have to ask you to refrain from providing Greg with any rewards - "

Greg was on his feet, his t-shirt on. He and Wilson were looking at each other. Foreman was aware of the two men sharing a moment of understanding - not liking, just pure understanding that excluded him.

"You can have him again for the weekend, if we don't have a case by that time," Foreman said. He began to shepherd Wilson out of the cubbyhole. Foreman glanced back. Greg was standing by the Eames chair, his hands by his sides, balanced awkwardly without his cane, looking after them with the strangest expression that Foreman had ever seen.

_tbc_


	10. Failure to Communicate

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is available as _CollarRedux_: and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. The plan was and is still to keep right on going all the way into fourth season and maybe further, since you ask. Whee..._

**2.10 Failure to Communicate**

Wilson walked into the Diagnostics conference room. Foreman was sitting going through a stack of patients' files, and whistling. He set one folder aside. "Can I help you?"

"Where is Greg?" Wilson asked.

"In Baltimore," Foreman said.

Wilson laughed. "Seriously - "

Foreman glanced at his watch. "Seriously. Plane should have landed by now."

Johns Hopkins was in Baltimore. Greg had gone there as an undergraduate. When he was free. Wilson put the paper bag with the coffee and bagel down on the conference room table. Johns Hopkins School of Medicine could have made an offer to buy Greg.

"What - why - " Wilson could hardly get the words out.

"Medicaid billings," Foreman said, and the door opened abruptly behind Wilson. Doctor Cuddy came in.

"Need your advice, what's the best diagnostics department within 60 miles of here?"

"We are," Foreman said.

"'We' aren't here," Cuddy said, sounding exasperated. "Greg is in Baltimore doing Medicaid billings."

Wilson grabbed the back of the chair in front of him. He found he was getting a cramp in his neck, he had turned it to stare at Cuddy so fast. He released one hand from the back of the chair to rub his neck.

"So? I'm board certified," Foreman said.

"You are not Greg."

"Yet," Foreman said. "Why'd you put me in charge of the department if you think I can't handle it?"

Cuddy glanced at Wilson, who made a flustered gesture with his hand. She looked back at Foreman and said, very levelly. "You run this department very efficiently. You are not Greg."

"What are the symptoms?" Foreman asked.

"Oh come on!" Cuddy sounded amused, but still exasperated. "You're going to diagnose him without meeting him? Prove that you too can be a maverick genius?"

"I need to know the symptoms," Foreman said blandly, "to know which hospital to recommend."

"EMT's report - " Cuddy glanced down at the file she was holding " - patient struck his head and is suffering from aphasia."

"Hmm!" Foreman's eyebrows were raised. "Neurological problem. Now I know a lot of good people in that field, seeing as I happen to be a neurologist."

"It's Fletcher Stone," Cuddy said. Wilson's hand went back to rub the back of his neck again. "Wrote twelve books? Exposed three administrations? Before he exposes us - "

"I get it. Famous patient needs famous doctor," Foreman nodded. "I'll call Doctor Taylor, he works at the Institute at JFK."

"Thank you," Cuddy said. She turned to walk out, glancing at Wilson again.

"Or..." Foreman said, and Cuddy turned back. Foreman smiled. "... maybe you should call him? What if I say something stupid?"

"Oh God." Cuddy dropped the file on the conference table. "Greg is easier!"

"Well, you can whip him," Foreman said, quietly picking the folder up and beginning to leaf through it.

Wilson went after Cuddy. She said, without other greeting, "Doctor Wilson. You want to know why I sent Greg to Baltimore."

"I have him tagged," Wilson said. "I promised him he's in my care and control... And you _never_ let him leave the hospital!"

"Greg's Medicaid billings are the most complex of any doctor at this hospital. For the past five years we have been required to send a lawyer with medical expertise who spends two to three days defending them, in Baltimore. You don't want to know how expensive this was. It's actually cheaper, assuming we have a lawyer who can handle Greg, to send him to Baltimore to respond to any medical questions about the billings while the lawyer handles the legal side: then we can get the whole thing wrapped up in one day trip. And this year..."

"Warner volunteered," Wilson said. The elevator doors had opened. Cuddy stepped inside. She smiled, briefly, brightly, at Wilson.

"Yes. She did."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Stacy had almost forgotten, in five years, what traveling with House involved. And she hadn't thought about the wheelchair at all.

The hospital security guards delivered him, without a cane, in a wheelchair, to the security check-in. Stacy had been waiting there for fifteen minutes: she'd got there early, despite a stop at the nearest supermarket to buy an emergency make-up kit. Slaves had to be checked through a separate gate, Stacy remembered, but there had never been this fuss before.

"Can he walk short distances?" the airport security was asking the guards from PPTH.

"Good morning," Stacy said. She produced her tickets. "Greg is flying with me. Can I help?"

House's head swung round to look at her. He stared at her, without saying a word, with a strange expression on his face: something between relief and anger.

"Is he considered dangerous?" the airport security guard asked her. "We can't take him through in that wheelchair - "

"No," Stacy said. She saw, with irritation, that some jobsworth had cuffed Greg's wrists to the arms of the wheelchair. She bent to take them off.

"He's required to wear them outside the hospital," the PPTH guard told her. "Sorry, Ms Warner, but those are the regulations. Unless you'd rather leash him?"

"I brought a leash," Stacy said calmly. "Can he walk short distances?"

"Yes," the PPTH guard said. "Slowly."

Stacy glanced at her watch. "We have plenty of time," she said. She nodded to the airport guard. "I'll need to go through the security gate: I'll meet Greg on the other side. I assume a wheelchair will be provided there for me to take Greg to the flight gates."

"That should all have been arranged when you booked the ticket," the airport guard told her.

They took some time to check House through, but on the other side, he was walking, awkwardly and slowly, escorted by a guard pushed him to his knees with a hand on his shoulder, and asked Stacy to wait.

They were not, exactly, alone together: the concourse was busy. But no one was paying attention to them, and there was a row of chairs close by.

Stacy held out her arm to House. He looked at it, and her, with a frown.

"What am I doing here?" he asked.

"Medicaid billing," Stacy said. "You remember: we fly to Baltimore, we explain why you prescribe the way you do, we have dinner, we fly back to New Jersey."

"What are you doing here?"

"Cuddy asked me to escort you."

"Cuddy hasn't let me out of the hospital in five years," House said.

"Come on. Let me get you up here - "

"No," House said, after a moment. He shifted uneasily on the floor. "You don't get it."

"You can sit down on those chairs - "

"I'm a slave," House said. "Those chairs aren't meant for slaves."

"You never used to worry about that," Stacy said. She didn't like seeing him kneeling there. She'd never liked that.

"Didn't I?" House frowned up at here. "Well, I've learned better."

An airport employee came back with a wheelchair. Stacy offered her arm again. House ignored it: he grabbed the wheelchair to pull himself to his feet, and sat down. Stacy shook off the employee, and pushed the wheelchair herself. "Coffee?" she offered.

House said nothing.

"Come on," Stacy said. "Coffee? Breakfast? Did you get to eat? I didn't."

"No," House said. She saw his shoulders move in a shrug. "I'm not hungry."

"I am," Stacy said brightly, after a moment.

"You're the boss," House said, flatly, after a moment.

There was a coffee and bagels stall near their flight gate. Stacy parked the chair nearby, bought two coffees and two breakfast bagels, and handed one of each to House. She was tearing into her own bagel before she realised House hadn't touched his.

"What's wrong? Did you want something else?"

"It's going to be easier not to throw up if I don't eat," House said.

"Do you get air sick?" Stacy frowned. "You didn't use to...?"

"I get pain sick," House said. "I'm supposed to report to the pharmacy to get my meds at eight am. Only I'm not going to be able to do that, because I'm at the airport. So I'm not going to get anything for my pain until we're back at PPTH, and that won't be at least twelve hours. By that time I won't just be nauseated, I'll be vomiting. It'll be easier for everyone if I don't have anything else to bring up."

"I can give you your meds," Stacy said.

"You can't write a prescription!"

"No, but I can _ask_ for one," Stacy said, annoyed. She fished into her pocket and produced the pharmacy envelope. "You get two at eight, right? Eat your breakfast, you're not supposed to have these on an empty stomach."

House shut up and ate. He held out a hand for the pain meds as soon as he had got the bagel down: it wasn't eight yet, but they'd be boarding at eight, there was no point being picky. He took the two pills with a mouthful of coffee, and looked relieved even before the effects could have hit.

"If you knew to ask," House said, "when did you know we were going?"

"I told Stacy I'd escort you two days ago. She asked me... over a week ago."

House opened his mouth, closed it again, and drank his coffee.

"I didn't tell you because ..." Stacy hesitated. "You're tagged. I didn't want you to discuss this with ... Doctor Wilson."

House's mouth twisted. "We don't talk much."

"Well," Stacy was irritated. "It's just a day trip to Baltimore. We used to do this all the time."

House said nothing. He pushed his half-full coffee cup away from him and folded his hands together in his lap.

"Why didn't you bring your roll-top?" Cuddy asked, irritated still. She was conspicuous, in her business suit, a professional travelling on an expense account, with a slave dressed in plain jeans and t-shirt, collared and tagged.

"They didn't exactly give me a chance to pack," House said. "You don't have your cross, what's your excuse?"

That was close to the last thing Stacy wanted to talk about with House.

"Okay," Stacy said. "Done with your coffee?"

She bought House an overpriced roll-top at the airport's clothing store. Blue, to match his eyes. She appraised a jacket, thinking how it would look on House, - realising as she did so that this was going to show up on her credit card bill, that Mark was going to find out - that the roll-top was an understandable purchase, Cuddy might even concede it as a necessary expense, but the jacket would be pure self-indulgence. "We're picking up a cane in Baltimore," she told him: "you won't need the wheelchair there."  
"Is that when you leash me?" House asked.

Stacy frowned at him, irritation blooming into anger. "I didn't bring a leash!"

"You'll get into trouble with Cuddy when she finds that out," House said. He pulled the new roll-top on. It concealed his collar and the betraying tag.

"Why should Cuddy find out?"

House shrugged again. He didn't say anything else. The rolltop hid his collar, but PPTH had paid only for a slave's ticket; in past years Stacy had usually paid the upgrade so that they could sit next to each other, but she'd known it would be too conspicuous to do that this year. The transport for slaves on this airline was shelved units with straps at the back of the plane. "He has a damaged leg," Stacy pointed out to the flight attendants. "Let him move at his own pace and get into the unit without shoving."

"We'll take care of him, ma'am. Have a pleasant flight."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Stacy had called in a favor in Baltimore: a slave from one of the law firms she had connections with, who was meeting someone else from a later flight, greeted them as they came off the plane and handed Stacy the handsome wooden cane she'd bought online from a store in Baltimore. She handed the cane to Greg, who accepted it with a look of relief. He still wasn't saying anything. He glanced at her oddly when he got into the cab after her, but sat down next to her on the seat and planted his cane on the floor, sitting with bowed head. Stacy gave the driver directions and leaned back, shooting House a curious glance.

"Flight okay?"

House stared down at the floor. "Fine."

"Remember, when we get there, don't say anything except in answer to a direct question from me."

"Fine."

"He shouldn't ask you any questions directly, but if he does, stay quiet, look at me: if it's a question you should answer, I'll repeat it to you."

"Fine," House repeated. He didn't move or look at Stacy.

"Are you actually listening to me?"

"Yes," House said.

"Say as little as possible, confine yourself to the medical justification. Don't attempt to defend your billing practices."

"Fine," House repeated, flatly.

The Medicaid offices hadn't changed from the last time Stacy was here. They were shown into an office - although Medicaid had to be aware that House was a slave, they always provided two chairs without having to be asked - and both of them sat down.

"What is wrong with you?" Stacy asked.

House shrugged. He glanced at Stacy. "I'm fine. I got it. I don't answer questions directly, you do all the talking, you're the boss. Boss."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"Patient, 62 years old," the Medicaid official said wearily. It had been a long afternoon. "Doctor House prescribed Viagra. I look in vain for the words 'erectile dysfunction' in the notes for Delores Smith?"

House turned to look at Stacy, as he had done a hundred times that afternoon. His whole face looked a question mark.

Stacy smiled, quite deliberately. Between House and the official, who had a habit of asking indirect questions as if to try trapping House into answering him directly, she could have slapped them both.

"Please say why you prescribed Viagra for this patient," she said.

"She had a heart condition," House said.

"And you ran out of nitroglycerin?" the Medicaid official asked.

House looked at Stacy.

"What was the medical reason you didn't prescribe nitroglycerin?"

"She also had low blood pressure, so nitro would be dangerous," House said. "Little blue pills improve blood flow, they're vasodilators. That's why you sometimes get the headaches."

That was more than he should have said. The Medicaid official looked affronted. "Are you seriously expecting us to foot the bill for off-label use of medication?"

Stacy couldn't suppress a sigh. "I think Doctor House understands - "

"Well, of course I do," House said, speaking directly to the Medicaid official. "This woman has a heart condition and she's on her own. A man can't nail his office assistant, it's national crisis time."

"Shut up," Stacy said, through her teeth.

"I could give you - " House said, and Stacy hit him on the arm.

Not hard: she had punched him on the arm harder before, when they had been almost living together, attention-getting when he was lost in thought. But it was the first time she had spontaneously touched him in five years: House turned to look at her, his face blank and surprised.

"My client's an idiot," Stacy said. "But is he wrong about the pills?"

"Off-label use is not sanctioned - "

"You're retiring in three weeks," Stacy said, turning on her charm. "You've been doing this job nearly twenty years, aren't you tired of administering policy you disagree with?"

"I never said I disagreed with - "

Stacy didn't let him finish, again. "What can they do to you? And Greg is sorry about his earlier outburst."

"Yes. Very sorry," House said after a moment. He still looked surprised. His apology was appallingly fake, but the Medicaid official was half-smiling.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"New personal record," Stacy said. "And time for dinner before we fly back." They walked out of the Medicaid offices. The air was cold and heavy clouds hung low over the city.

Stacy hailed a cab and nodded to House to get into it. "I booked a table at a place in the inner harbor," she told him. "Best Maryland crab in... Maryland." She leaned forward and told the driver where to go.

"Where's your crucifix?" House asked, as Stacy leaned back and looked at him.

"I left it at the jeweler's to be cleaned," Stacy said sharply.

House nodded. "Right."

"If you bring that up again, I'll leave you at the airport and eat by myself," Stacy said, half-joking.

House nodded. His look at her wasn't amused at all. "When are we getting back?" he asked.

"Relax," Stacy said. "I have your evening meds. We're catching the 9pm flight."

House nodded. He didn't look relieved. He gave her a closed-off look, and sat in silence for the rest of the drive. By the time they got to the restaurant, near the heavy sky was letting down a heavy snowfall.

The restaurant made no fuss about seating House, or about allowing him to order from the menu: Stacy had noticed that people just tended not to perceive the collar, even though a rolltop really barely concealed it: the bulge under the fabric stood out, to Stacy's perception. She was pretty sure that she was the only person in the restaurant who knew he was a slave, when she stepped out after they'd ordered, for a cigarette and to make two phone calls. She stood there under the restaurant's canopy, shivering, wondering if this was even a good idea. This had meant to be a chance, if the weather cooperated, for the two of them to have a conversation outside the hospital, away from House's owners. But House wasn't talking.

At ten to eight, just as the cab was arriving to take them to the airport, she gave him his pills, unobtrusively pushing them across the table, and he as unobtrusively swallowed them, with a mouthful of water.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"They're saying on the radio flights are cancelled," the cab driver said.

"Take us to the airport anyway," Stacy said.

House sat still, in silence, rubbing his leg.

All the flights were grounded. The airport was crowded with people waiting for delayed flights. Stacy looked around. There was not a free seat in sight.

"You need to lie down," Stacy said.

House gave her an odd look, and then glanced down at the floor. It was dirty with tracked-in snow. "Sure, boss. Right here, right now?"

Stacy glared at him. "I booked a room at the airport hotel when I saw how bad the weather was: it was the last one available. We'll check in and tell them where to find us."

House looked at her. Just for once, he looked stunned into silence. When he spoke, it was very quietly: "Does Mark know about this?"

"The hotel's upstairs," Stacy said.

The check-in staff knew Stacy was flying with a slave. They offered, twice, to let Stacy put House in one of the airline cages.

In the lift on the way up, House looked at her continuously: he looked shocked, but also as if he couldn't take his eyes off her. SHe got the impression he was almost wincing when she used her key card in the lock.

The hotel bedroom was large, with a big double bed. Stacy looked at him. "Mark knows when things are bad I always like to have an escape route planned."

House was standing by the door. He closed it behind him. He didn't move towards her.

"You planned this," he said. His voice was thin and small.

"How could I plan the weather?" Stacy said.

"You can check a weather forecast." House stayed by the door. "How bad are things with Mark?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"It's the little things that give you away," House said. "You're not wearing your crucifix."

"It's being cleaned."

"You keep jewel cleaner under the sink so you won't have to go a day without it. True, you forgot it that morning that your pipes burst, but then you went back and waded through the flood to retrieve it. Either you left it behind on purpose, or by mistake. The only reason you'd leave it behind intentionally, is if it no longer meant anything to you. But since it was a gift from your mom, that would mean you had a fight with her. But since you don't talk to ghosts, that s unlikely."

"Leave it alone, House."

"We're already at the airport and you already turned down two offers to put me in a cargo cage for the night. So that leaves forgetting it unintentionally, but then we'd have to explain why you didn t go back for it when you realized."

"I didn't realize until I got to the airport."

"Nope, you were in make-up when you got to the airport. Can't put on make-up without looking at yourself and you can't look at yourself without touching that thing."

"Why does this matter to you?"

"I need to know what's going on."

"Can't you just let it go?"

House shook his head. His voice deepened. He was watching Stacy intently. "Did you know any time Cuddy wants to move me anywhere, she sends two security guards? This morning I woke up and there were four of them. They took my cane away. Two of them held me while the other two got me dressed. When I started yelling one of them got a gag in my mouth. That was before any of my fellows were in, and no one else would care, but just on the chance Cuddy was in her office early and this wasn't authorised... anyway, they gagged me. Then they put me into a wheelchair and cuffed my wrists to the chair. They didn't take the gag out till the chair was in the back of the soundproof transport van they use. When they took me out of the van I found out we were at the airport and they were talking about the check-in gate to Baltimore. Until I saw you, the best guess I'd come up with was that Cuddy had sold me to Johns Hopkins. You don't want to know what the worst guesses were."

Stacy stared, breathless. "Is that true?"

"Everybody lies," House said. "You wanted me here. You knew there was a risk of snow-storms. I bet you've even got oxycontin for tomorrow because you hoped we could stay over. But I have to know what's going on here."

"Mark and I had a fight," Stacy snapped. "We had a fight and I was angry and not thinking straight, and I walked out without my make-up and without my cross! I stopped at the drug store to buy make-up, but I couldn't buy a cross because they don't have an aisle for personal talismans!"

"So you had a fight," House said. He stepped back. He was leaning against the door. "It'll blow over."

"It was about nothing." Stacy swallowed. "Nothing. You know a mailbox with a sign that says 'last pick-up 5pm', does that mean last pick-up to go to the post office, or last pick-up to leave the post office and be sent out of town?" They had passed that sign yesterday at six. Neither of them had anything to go to the post office.

"You fought over mail delivery?" House sounded bewildered.

"I tried to get him to drop the subject, but he wouldn't. I told him he was right, he thought I was being condescending."

"You were," House said.

"He's pushing me out of his life," Stacy said, coming to the painful crux of it. House stood lanky and familiar against the hotel door: he was studying her with the same kind of focussed attention he'd always given. Mark was... Mark. She was crying: her tears must be wrecking her face. She needed to wash off her make-up and look grown-up again. Her cellphone rang.

She turned away to the window: PPTH. Cuddy's voice rang out, loud and frantic.

"We can't get back," Stacy said. "I left a message. Flights are grounded till tomorrow morning."

Cuddy was talking at speed. Stacy grasped there was a famous patient, a reporter, sinking fast, suffering from aphasia, House's team confused.

"No," Stacy said finally. "What do you imagine he can do from a hotel room in Baltimore? We'll be on our flight out of here, when the storm lifts: you can have a car waiting for us at the airport. If your hospital can keep him alive till Greg gets there, Greg can examine him then. But you're not going to get to blame Greg for a patient dying in New Jersey because he couldn't diagnose him over the phone from Maryland."

There was a speechless pause from the other end of the line. Stacy said gently "_Good_ night, Doctor Cuddy," and closed the connection. She looked at the phone a moment, and put it down on the bedside cabinet.

House had moved away from the door. He was standing in the middle of the room. "Maybe I could diagnose him over the phone," he said.

"You don't have to," Stacy said firmly. "All your team has to do is keep him alive till you get there."

"And if they diagnose him without my help?"

"Then you've succeeded in training them. Well done."

House swallowed. After a moment he said, "So... what are you doing?"

Stacy swallowed. "Our relationship was like an addiction. It was like...

"Really good drugs?" House sounded amused.

"No, it's like... vindaloo curry."

"Okay," House said, sounding confused again. "Sure..."

"Really, really hot Indian curry they make with red chili peppers."

"I know what it is! Didn't think it was addictive."

Stacy walked over to House. "You're abrasive and annoying and come on way too strong, like... vindaloo curry. And when you're crazy about curry, that's fine but no matter how much you love curry, you have too much of it, it takes the roof of your mouth off. And then you never want to see curry for a really, really long time but you wake up one day and you think..." She swallowed. "God I really miss... curry."

She was less than two feet from House. She reached out and took hold of his forearms, leaned up to kiss him on the lips. He still looked uncertain.

"If you hadn't just had a fight with Mark..."

"For once in your life will you _shut up?_" She kissed him and began to tug him gently towards the bed, pushing him down on it and kissing him, moving to lie on him at his left so as not to jog the bad leg. He kissed her back, his lips feeling slightly cracked, but his hands stayed by his sides: he wasn't moving to hold her.  
"What are you thinking?" Stacy asked after a moment.

House's eyes fixed on hers. "That I really hate hotel bedrooms."

"I didn't know that."

House shrugged. He was still looking at her. The collar and the tag were still there, under the roll-top.

"Is it because Doctor Wilson has you tagged?" Stacy said suddenly. "You feel... " House had always been faithful to her when she had him tagged. "You don't want to go... behind his back?"

House shook his head and started to laugh, a creaky out-of-practice noise. He turned his face away from her. "Please," he said, his voice cracking. "I want to..."

Stacy hesitated. "Are you all right?"

"I thought Cuddy had sold me," House said. "And the only thing I could think of... was that Wilson would be mad. He'd want to come find me. I don't want... I know how things work there. somewhere new... I don't want to be sold."

"Of course not!" Stacy was appalled. "Wilson... takes care of you?"

There was another long pause. House said, finally, "He brings me food. And coffee. And makes sure I get my meds. He got me out of evening clinic duty, I was doing eight hours a day for months. He told me he'd tagged me so I could be under his care and control."

"You like him?" Stacy asked.

She was beyond appalled when House slowly shook his head, tears sliding fatly from the corners of his eyes. His face was white and looked fragile. "But when I thought Cuddy had sold me," he said in a small voice, "I thought about him. It's the little things that give you away. I need him. I don't need you."

"I want you," Stacy said. She was crying. She put her hands on his head, feeling the rough hair under her palms, careful not to touch his collar.

"I want you too," House said, and Stacy kissed him, tasting his tears as well as hers.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Greg wasn't back. There were snowstorms in Maryland: Cuddy said that Stacy had warned her flights were likely to be delayed.

Foreman, Chase, and Cameron were running around all day long trying to diagnose Fletcher Stone: he was aphasic, couldn't speak or write, and they were not doing well without input from the patient or from Greg.

Wilson stayed at the hospital until an e-mail from Cuddy confirmed that Stacy Warner was staying overnight in Maryland: Greg would be shipped back on the first available flight the next day, once the weather cleared, and brought directly to the hospital, to figure out what was wrong with Stone. Wilson could have him after that.

Wilson went back to his hotel room, alone. Warner had Greg to herself, overnight.

Of course as he was tagged, she should leave him alone sexually: but even if she did -

Warner had a hold over Greg that no one else had achieved. Wilson wanted that kind of control. He'd been very kind to Greg, very gentle, very considerate.

Maybe he should just make Greg scream.

_*tbc*_

_Sorry for the long delay! I was soooo busy in the run-up to Hallowe'en you wouldn't believe it! Next chapter should be along sooner! read & review please!  
_


	11. Need to Know

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

**2.11 Need to Know**

Mark woke: he was alone in their bed. Stacy had texted him briefly last night to say that the weather in Baltimore had meant she had to stay there. Mark had texted back, briefly, "ok", and wondered if there really were snowstorms in Baltimore bad enough to ground the planes, or if Stacy just didn't want to see him.

The fight hadn't been about the post office sign. It had been about every time Stacy wheeled him past something he wanted to stop at. Every time she said "let me do that" because Mark would take too long.

She was rich, she was working at a job below her level of expertise, she was living in a rental house in suburban New Jersey: she could afford to buy whatever companion she wanted. She had a husband who was a crippled high school teacher.

She didn't need him. She didn't want him.

Mark had been doing every PT session, taking every extra session he could fit into his time at the hospital. He couldn't walk, but he could use the bathroom by himself, he could transfer himself from bed to chair: he could make coffee.

He couldn't keep Stacy. He didn't check the weather in Maryland. He didn't want to know.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson knew exactly when the plane from Baltimore touched down. He was on his way to work when he glanced at his watch and knew the plane was landing. There was a diner where he bought Greg breakfast, where they didn't object to serving a slave.

He stopped there as usual, and bought himself breakfast, French toast and coffee. The waitress asked him if he wanted a breakfast bagel to take out, and he nearly said yes. But Greg didn't deserve to be rewarded (and besides, if Warner had bought him breakfast at the airport, offering Greg a second breakfast would be pointless). He arrived at the hospital at almost the same time as the car arrived from the airport: Cuddy, with two tall security guards, was waiting in the lobby. Wilson paused to say hello.

Warner and Greg came in side by side: Cuddy seemed to relax a little. She nodded to the security guards. "Take him up to Diagnostics."

One of the security guards said "Urgently?"

Cuddy seemed to hesitate. "No," she said, "you can leave him his cane."

Wilson was studying Greg and Warner. The two hulking security guards approached them: Warner glanced up at them and said something to Greg, who shrugged and grinned at her - a brief, fleeting, _relaxed_ expression that made Wilson itch. One of the guards put a hand on Greg's shoulder, and he turned away from Warner and went with him, walking easily with his cane.

"Doctor Wilson," Cuddy said, drawing his attention away momentarily. "Please confirm with Doctor Foreman that Greg's services are not required by Diagnostics _before_ you remove him from the hospital." She caught Wilson's eyes as she said it, and nodded firmly.

"Okay," Wilson said, almost to himself: Cuddy had already turned away to go to her office. Greg was entering the elevator, with the security guards: Wilson realised, as the doors closed, that Greg was wearing a blue roll-top that Wilson hadn't seen before.

Warner had stopped in front of him. She looked at him coldly. "Doctor Wilson."

Wilson glanced round. This was far too public a place for the conversation he'd like to have with her - if it turned out she had made use of the slave he had tagged. He put on a polite smile. "Good morning."

"We should talk," she said, without any effort to conceal what she was saying. "About House. Greg."

Wilson gave her a less polite smile. "Perhaps we should. Later." He intended to talk with Greg first. He turned away .

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Foreman hadn't gone home last night, Cameron thought: she and Chase had both taken a break once Stone was stable, but when they came back into the Diagnostics office at eight, Chase armed with a box of bearclaws and Cameron with a tray of three coffees, Foreman was still sitting in front of the whiteboard.

Sometime last night, after Cameron had left, he'd wiped it and rewritten it: now there was only a handful of phrases, which Cameron recognised: their patient had said them, repeatedly, with great urgency -

"When his wife isn't in the room," she said.

Foreman barely spared her a glance. He got up again and paced, shooting glances at the board.

Chase looked at his watch and put the box down on the table, helping himself to a bearclaw and taking one of the coffees. "You really think you're going to figure it out before House gets here?" he said.

The door opened again. Doctor House, flanked by two security guards, stood in the doorway. One of them gave him a shove, making him stumble; he caught himself with his cane.

The guards had taken him off without his cane, before any of them got in, yesterday: it was lying on the conference table where Cameron had put it, to be handy for when he got back. The cane he was using now wasn't new, and wasn't hospital issue, it was a handsome wooden antique. He was wearing a new blue rolltop that matched his eyes. Usually when Greg was taken somewhere with a security escort, he arrived looking like Greg, and took at least a moment to get back to looking like Doctor House: this morning, even when the guards had been towering either side of him, he didn't look like Greg: he didn't carry himself like a slave at all.

Doctor House walked into the Diagnostics room, his eyes going first to the white board.

"New patient," he said thoughtfully. "Famous, influential, rich - got to be at least two out of three for Cuddy to try to get me to diagnose him over the phone from Baltimore. So, did you guys have a party while I was gone?"

"Patient's Fletcher Stone," Foreman said, expressionlessly. "He fell. Hit his head. When he got up he had aphasia - can't speak a coherent sentence or write one or draw a straight line. The bang on the head's nothing - he hit hard but there's no evidence of damage from the fall. He has fluid in the lungs, we had to intubate him, he tests positive for amphetamines. He's running a fever. CT scan showed nothing, MRI showed a little edema and a small scar on his brain but nowhere near area associated with conduction aphasia. He was taking sleeping pills and amphetamines - he was getting habituated to both of them. He claimed there was no prior history of convulsive attacks, but he was on an anti-convulsive, which he'd obtained under a false name. We did a lumbar puncture, but it wasn't meningitis. He managed to tell us when he started tasting metal, and we got him on dialysis, but his kidneys are still not functioning."

Despite herself, Cameron was impressed: Foreman had summarised nearly twenty-four hours of their combined work, and he didn't even sound upset. He was glaring at House, but his voice was completely level.

"We searched his home," Chase said. "That's how we found the Topomax, in a prescription bottle with a John Doe name. He'd started a home improvement project, new kitchen cabinets, but the stuff had been sitting there for weeks. He probably thought he could take the project on then realized it was a little more than he could handle."

"Those words on the board," Cameron said. "He's been trying to talk to us. Last night Foreman wrote out everything he's been trying to say to us when his wife wasn't in the room."

"Keep the stain, knife can't force," House read out. "I couldn't tackle the bear, they took my stain."

"He keeps saying 'They took my stain'," Foreman said. "He knows something, but we can't get it in yes / no questions."

"A fluent aphasic retrieves words that are stored somewhere close to the one he wants. They can be filed by sounds or by meaning. So if he wants to say table, he could say... label, or he could say chair. Or he could just say... Jabberwocky, there's no way to tell." House went on staring at the list. "Couldn't tackle the bear... Does he say that often?"

"Yes," Cameron said.

"And he's taking an anti-convulsive," House said.

"It's probably for weight-loss," Foreman said.

"Ever hear this one?" House said. "Build a house, each wall has a southern exposure, big bear comes wandering by, what colour's the bear?"

"White," Cameron said, because Foreman was looking exasperated. "It's a polar bear; you built your house in the North Pole."

"Ask him if he's bi-polar," House said. "Topamax isn't just off-labeled for weight loss. It's off-labeled for mood disorders. He's been an investigative journalist for twenty years, it's a career that would be great for someone with a mood disorder that makes you take risks, seek excitement, make up stories. He got married recently, right?"

Cameron followed that thought process: a husband in a romantic state of mind would be more likely to want to conceal something from his wife and more likely to succeed if they hadn'tbeen married very long. Chase and Foreman were staring, jaws dropped.

"Did he give up his career for his wife?" House asked.

Cameron stared. "Yes," she said, as Foreman and Chase seemed speechless.

"Then ask him if he's tried bilateral cingulotomy. I can't spell it, but what else do I have a neurologist for? It's an experimental surgery that some people claim helps mood disorders."

"I know what it is!" Foreman said. He stepped forward, looking threatening, now evidently really angry. "You're pulling this out of the air! Even if he's had a bilateral cingulotomy, how would that explain anything? It doesn't explain the kidney failure, it doesn't explain the seizures! It could explain the neural scarring, but it's in the wrong place for aphasia."

"Get his wife out of the room," House said, looking unperturbed, "and ask him if he recently made a secret trip to somewhere like Caracas or Buenos Aires to have the secret surgery. When he says yes, get some more of his blood, put it on a slide, and look at it under a microscope. Don't run it through a computer. Actually _look_ at it." He looked at Foreman, meeting his eyes. His chin went up. "If that meets with your approval?" he said, with audible sarcasm. "Boss?"

"Fine," Foreman said. "You've come up with this creative solution out of nothing - you go see the patient."

"Ooh, snarky," House said. "Was he like this the whole time I was gone? Doctor Cameron, walk me there. You can lie to his wife for me."

Greg didn't usually ask Cameron to run escort for him. They were barely out of the door when House said "How did the HIV test go? Did you study up?"

"I rescheduled," Cameron said. "We've been busy." She looked up and caught his eyes on her. She hadn't even realised that House knew she was supposed to have the six-month HIV test yesterday. "It's not a big deal. I had the viral load and antibody tests. It's 99.9% that I don't have HIV."

"You have the test and it's negative, you gain a tenth of a point. But if it's positive you lose... nearly 100, right?"

"It's no big deal," Cameron said again. She was startled by him. She hadn't seen him in forty-eight hours, but he seemed taller, moving more confidently: he hadn't had to be reminded to put on a roll-top, he hadn't so much as flinched or gone quiet at Foreman's anger. What had happened in Baltimore?

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Stacy had texted Mark from Baltimore to let him know she was staying. She got back a brief, uninterested "ok". He didn't call.

Going home would commit her to saying something. Or not. If she didn't say anything to Mark, it didn't really hurt him that she had...

She saw Doctor Wilson in the foyer, and reminded herself - and him - that she wanted to talk with him. Talk to him: she couldn't imagine that he'd have anything to say she wanted to hear.

((They had gone to sleep on the bed, not even undressed: House had simply closed his eyes and drifted off. He had always been awkward about being naked with her; it had taken her some time to realise that for House, sleeping with her was an act of profound trust.

She had managed to get undressed, wrap herself in the towelling robe, and pass her clothing to the laundry service, giving orders for a fresh set of men's socks, underwear, and a plain white t-shirt, to be delivered to the room before the airport opened again tomorrow - all without waking House: But when she set down the receiver and the phone click-pinged back at her, House sat bolt upright, breathing hard and suddenly: he looked round, as if he was panicking, seemed to realise where he was, and stared at her, still breathing hard.))

Stacy got to her office, sat down, and checked her mail. She did it quite slowly. When she'd finished checking her mail, she'd have to figure out what she was going to do next. Mark would be in for his physio. She ought to go see him, they could have lunch together. She could tell him...

"What the hell did you do?" Doctor Wilson demanded. He had entered her office without knocking. "Were you just cold and lonely?"

Stacy sat back in her chair and studied him. She was trying to remember why she thought he was good-looking and kind. Good-looking she supposed he still was. But she couldn't see him as kind any longer.

"This is none of your business."

"I have Greg tagged. No one's allowed to interfere with him."

"I didn't interfere with him," Stacy responded, calmly.

((She had put the light out: House had undressed in the dark. She had guessed why when she touched his shoulders, briefly, and felt the keloid scars twisting across his skin. He hadn't flinched, but a small sound escaped him - a grunt, not a word, not quite a whimper - just enough to let her know he didn't want her hands there. House had been whipped before she knew him, had been whipped once or twice while she had him tagged, when she couldn't manage to deflect the punishment: but the scars on his back were mostly new. Making love in the dark, naked bodies pressing together in the hotel's kingsize bed, had felt so natural, so right, so _familiar_ that it had not occurred to her until she sat down in the business-class seat on her own, House clambering carefully into the shelf at the back to be fastened down with straps, that she had been unfaithful to Mark.))

"Don't deflect!" Wilson snapped. "You agreed to escort Greg to Baltimore, I have him tagged, I should have been told!"

"Why are you so worked up over this?" Stacy asked suddenly.

"You're married!"

"Not to you!" Stacy snapped back. She looked at him for a long moment. "So are you, aren't you?"

"I'm waiting for the court to set a date for my divorce," Wilson said heatedly. "You? Are you planning to leave your husband for a slave?"

And just like that, she had her answer. No.

She didn't want to leave Mark. She didn't want to hurt Mark. She wanted to be with Greg, she wanted to be with Mark, she couldn't be with both of them: the same problem she had resolved five years ago by taking off House's tag and walking away from him, planning never to see him again. And that had worked. Until, to continue the curry metaphor, she'd moved back next door to the Indian restaurant that had first taught her to love vindaloo... But she didn't want to leave Mark: she didn't want Mark to leave her.

"Hey. This is a big deal. I tagged Greg. I wanted him protected. You have _no idea_ how things have been for him. You left him because you _didn't_ want him! I do!" Wilson fell silent, as if surprised by his own outburst.

"You're being dramatic," Stacy said.

"No," Wilson said, more mildly. "Actually, I'm underplaying. This is me being restrained."

"It was one night," Stacy said.

"Are you being intentionally thick?"

Stacy lifted her chin, affronted.

"This was not just a one-night stand," Wilson said. He rubbed the back of his neck. His mouth was working. "You can't - _toy_ with him."

Stacy shook her head. That was one thing she knew she wasn't doing. "I'm not," she said. She hesitated. She didn't like Doctor Wilson, but those last two statements had come out with solid honesty: Wilson wanted House, and he had tagged House as a serious, protective relationship. A slave who belonged to an institution was always better off if someone senior in the institution had them tagged, had a personal relationship with them. "I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted, with reciprocal honesty.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Chase was looking through the patient files Foreman had been sorting through yesterday morning, when House came back into the room.

"Find me a case," House said.

Foreman looked up. "We're still working on Fletcher Stone."

"Got the diagnosis," House said cheerfully.

"Even if you were right about his being bipolar, it doesn't explain a thing - " Foreman said, and House cut him off.

"Cerebral malaria. If any of you had actually looked at his blood with your own eyes, you would have seen it swarming with parasites, busier than the clinic on a wet Saturday morning. Now find me a case."

"Foreman's been looking through these files," Chase said.

"Power has made him lazy. Get down to ER. Go talk to the nurses. Find me a case."

"Recurring fever, neurological problems, lethargies that he took caffeine pills and amphetamines to fight, and an experimental surgery in a malarial zone," Foreman said slowly. "The cutting was done by gamma knife, didn't leave a scar, and it wasn't directly the psych disorder, it was the secrecy - the drug use and the surgery he couldn't admit to anyone."

"Welcome to the end of the thought process." House grinned, showing all of his teeth. "Now, find me a case."

Chase stood up. He had occasionally seen House in just this mood, and before Foreman or Cameron had joined Diagnostics, he had known where to go and who to ask for the interesting patients.

"Chase," Foreman said. "We're not done with this patient." He nodded to Chase to sit down again. "Cameron will be coming back with the results, we'll see if Greg's right."

Very pointedly, Chase frowned at Foreman. "You're not my boss."

"I'm Greg's boss, Greg is your boss. The math is pretty simple." Foreman actually sounded reasonable, but so calmly arrogant that Chase wanted to punch him. He turned and looked directly at Foreman, careful not even to look in House's direction.

"Are you signing my paychecks? Are you hiring or firing?" The one power Doctor House absolutely had, and had never had taken away from him: so long as he was head of Diagnostics he could fire his fellows, and he could say who he would hire or wouldn't. Foreman didn't have that; and Cuddy signed the Diagnostic paychecks.

"This is not about that," Foreman said.

"The only thing you've been asked to do is supervise House in case he does something insane."

"I _am_ the acting head of Diagnostics."

Chase glanced at his watch. "Sure... for another two weeks. I'm going to find another case."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Stacy called home and left a message on their answering machine. Work backlog. She didn't even know if Mark would believe her, if he had believed the excuse about the weather. She wanted to say, her throat was closing up _not_ saying, "Call me," because she knew if he did they would just end up in frozen silence, again, like last time, like the time before. The ease they'd had with each other was gone.

Could they ever get it back?

The door to her office opened, and House seemed to slide round it: he closed the door and leaned back against it and looked at her. "Working late?" he asked. "Or are you just avoiding Mark?"

He wasn't wearing the blue rolltop she had bought him, but one more plain and functional, obviously bought for him by the hospital: but he was still using the wooden cane she'd bought. He had finished clinic duty for the day - he had probably come directly to her office from the clinic. He would, in her time at least, now be "free" till his morning schedule began, subject to patient care if he had a case. When she had him tagged they could go up to the roof to hold hands and kiss or talk, if she couldn't get permission to take him out of the hospital for the night.

Everything, always, had to be fitted around House's gruelling schedule. Stacy hadn't left New Jersey, except for those flights to Baltimore, during the five years she and House were together. She could have gone: but she would have had to leave House behind. She couldn't assume he would be there when she wanted company, or needed help: he belonged to the hospital, and his time was theirs to dispose of.

They had no future together, They never had a future together. She couldn't bring herself to go back into that tiny box that had been her relationship with House - not again.

She had a future with Mark. If they could talk to each other again. And the obstacles to that were so minor compared to the huge obstacles that she and House had between them, that if the two of them couldn't get together, they didn't deserve to. "I'm moving back to Short Hills, I think it's time," she said abruptly, forcing herself to it.

House's face changed. It nearly broke her heart. He went in an instant from humanly open to slavishly closed: he didn't look as if he was angry, or hated her, or even disappointed, but just as any other slave might, as if he was there to do what she told him without any personal feeling. He had called himself _hospital equipment_, he had said it was _easier_ to think of himself that way.

He didn't say anything, he only looked: Stacy found herself talking as if in reply: "It's never meant to be permanent. And now that Mark's getting better..."

"Yeah. Much better," House said, level and expressionless.

Stacy looked down at her papers. She should call Mark, go home, start trying to build that relationship again. She could not afford House, and she could not have that relationship any more. "Mark needs to get back to work."

"Right," House said. He walked round the desk, and when Stacy looked up, his face was alive again. His voice wasn't expressionless. He was looking at her so intensely she almost couldn't bear it. "Saving the next generation from making bad choices about acne cream. You're running away because last night _meant_ something."

"I'm not running away," Stacy said flatly, "I'm going home. I love Mark."

"You love me more," House said. He was standing very close to her: if she stood up, she'd be in his arms. "I don't want you to leave."

Stacy wanted him. But if she said yes, if she stood up... where could they go? Not home: Mark was there. She would not show up at a hotel with slave in tow, ask for a room for a few hours. House had no privacy - the door to the cubicle where he slept didn't lock, the Diagnostics conference room had glass walls. House had demonstrated once that if he lay down on the floor of his cubicle he wasn't visible from the conference room as he was if he sat at his desk, but ... she couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Stacy said.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"The tumor is benign," Greg said. He sounded far too pleased with himself. Chase had found a patient with movement disorder: they had literally closed the file on Fletcher Stone and opened the file on a 34-year-old white female with movement disorder. Foreman couldn't remember something like this happening before: days or occasionally weeks could pass between one Diagnostics patient and the next.

"All she has to do is quit taking birth control pills and it'll go away on its own. I'm cancelling the surgery," Greg said.

Foreman shook his head.

"All right," Greg said, with tired impertinence, "_you're_ cancelling the surgery. Boss."

"We'll talk to the woman on her own, tell her the facts - her birth control pills combined with the fertility regimen has caused a benign tumor - and give her the options: she can stop using the Pill or she can have surgery. Her choice."

"She won't admit to the birth control," Chase said. "She's been on fertility treatment for months."

"So go schedule the surgery," Foreman directed. "You're probably right. I'll go talk to the patient. Cameron, would you get the husband out of her room?"

"Sure," Cameron said. She stood up: Chase was getting to his feet.

As Foreman had expected, Greg reacted. He'd been sullen since he got back from his clinic hours. He said, aggressively, rudely, "You're going to schedule a completely unnecessary surgery just so supermom can keep lying that she really wants another baby?"

"You're here to help us find the diagnosis, Greg," Foreman said, smoothly. "Not to decide on the treatment. That's the patient's decision, and my responsibility." He glanced at his watch. "There's still time to call the clinic and ask if they want you for two more hours tonight. Or you can just wait here." He stood up, frowning, deliberate. He hadn't intended to send Greg off for another two hours in the clinic - he didn't suppose Doctor Wilson would appreciate any more delays. "The clinic didn't seem busy," he said after a pause. "Just stay here until you hear otherwise, from myself or Doctor Wilson."

"Oh yes, the power tastes so sweet. You just can't resist. You're like a diabetic at the ice cream counter. You want to say no, but you need that chocolaty goodness."

"Just stay here," Foreman repeated, after another pause. He was thinking again about the riding crop. This was an issue of manners, not medical ethics. Greg had learned to behave around other hospital staff, who had the power to have him whipped if he was impertinent. Maybe it would do some good to have manners beaten into him here. Even if the fellows were normally subordinate to Doctor House, they were all free people, not chattel, and Greg should mind his tongue when it wasn't a matter of diagnosing the patient.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Stacy had left a message on their answering machine: she was working late. Mark had got a cab over to the hospital. He was thinking about showing up at her office, as he had before sometimes, to make her break for a meal - even sandwiches and a piece of fruit and a cup of coffee. Or take-out. He could call for take-out. They could eat together, the way they had before, quickly because Stacy didn't work late unless there was a lot to get through, but comfortable with each other.

But he didn't. Instead, he took the elevator to the floor of the hospital where he hadn't been since he was a patient, and looked for Diagnostics. He knew - he couldn't remember how he knew - that "Doctor House" effectively lived and slept in the Diagnostics department. It was after seven: probably the other doctors, the ones who worked for Diagnostics, would all have gone home.

Sure enough, when he rolled past a glass-walled conference room, the slave he remembered from months ago was sitting at the table, alone. The door wasn't the easiest sort to open from a wheelchair, but Mark made it, and rolled inside.

"House."

The slave looked up. "What?"

"I'm here about Stacy."

The slave's face was closed-off, unreadable. "What about her?"

"I think I'm losing her."

The slave looked at him a moment longer, his face unreadable. "Your wife, your problem," he said finally, and got to his feet. He moved quickly for a crippled man: Mark remembered. He shifted the chair in front of the door, and said "She won't talk to me."

The slave leaned on his cane. "What, you're going to talk to me instead?" He shook his head. "Talk to your shrink."

"She keeps saying everything's fine."

One moment the slave was standing still, leaning on his cane: the next he had grabbed one of the chair's push handles, unset the brake on that side, and used it to spin Mark's chair so that he was no longer blocking the door. Mark grabbed on to the arms of his chair, feeling a sweeping breathlessness and anger. The door opened and the slave was through it and out, his parting comment "Find a bar and talk to a stranger."

No one had done that to Mark. Not even Stacy, pushing him away. Anger made him faster: Mark was through the doorway and out into the corridor. The slave was limping fast, nearly at the stairs already. Mark sped. He caught up with the slave at the doors. "You're the only one who's been through this!"

The slave stopped and looked down at him. The slave. House. Stacy's former...

_What's the difference between this guy and me? Not nearly as much as the difference between both of us and you. When was the last time you worried that you were going to lose your house or get sold? You could ditch him with two weeks notice and you can go back to him because things are difficult with us. You've got him where you want him. Like you got me where you want me._

"House," Mark said, forcefully. "I'm shutting her out. I'm saying things and then hating myself for saying them." And Stacy just looks. She doesn't get mad, she doesn't get sarcastic, she just _looks_ and turns away and goes back to work. "How did you get past that?"

"Didn't." House went through the doors. Mark followed him.

"Can you please be a human being for one minute and talk to me?"

"Sorry," House said. He looked back at Mark again, his face closed off. "I'm a slave, I don't get to be a human being." He started to climb the stairs, slowly and effortfully, ignoring Mark.

"House," Mark said, and finally knew there was only one thing left to do. He heaved himself out of his chair on to the steps. His legs still felt mostly numb, but he could sort of push with them. His arms were strong.

He heard, through a fog of effort, House say "You're not ready for this."

He pulled himself up, feeling an awful sense of physical wrongness, keeping going by sheer effort. He landed against something softer than the stairs: House caught him. He looked up into House's face. "I've seen the way you and Stacy talk to each other."

House's face wasn't closed off. He looked down at Mark, horrifyingly open. For a dizzy moment Mark saw his own distress and loss, exposed and magnified. But all House said was "You're an idiot. You probably just set your rehab back three months." He was still holding Mark: his arms were hard and strong, his body was fit, his legs supported him. He was desirable: Mark felt himself flabby and unfit, his legs lolling behind him, flopping on the stars, his hands clutching at a slave.

Mark shouted, struggling, and the slave let go. Mark felt himself falling: he landed on one of the lower steps, sitting on his butt, his legs trailing like sacks of meat. His back hurt. The slave limped back down the stairs and went out through the stair door, leaving Mark sitting by himself in the stairwell, hearing his own heart race.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson stepped out of his office, his mind elsewhere. Greg had managed to find another patient for Diagnostics the instant he had solved Fletcher Stone's case, but Foreman had told him late on in the afternoon that the movement disorder case was going well and it was likely Greg would be free by the evening.

He had opened the door of the Diagnostics conference room before he realised that the person standing at the table, looking round, was Stacy Warner. And Greg was nowhere to be seen.

"Doctor Wilson," Warner said, and didn't move. "I came to tell House..."

"He's probably on clinic duty," Wilson said.

"He's not," Warner said. "I checked. He should be here." She paused. "I want to talk with House in private," she said crisply. "I know you have a right to be present. Are you going to insist on it?"

"Depends what you're going to tell him."

Warner shrugged. "If I wanted to tell you that, I wouldn't ask to make the interview private."

They both glanced sideways in the same moment: Greg was limping along the hallway. He pushed the door open and came in, looking from Warner to Wilson. His face was closed off.

"Your husband's sitting on the stairs. He got out of his wheelchair and tried to climb them. You should get a couple of orderlies to move him. He's probably set his rehab back three to six months."

"House," Warner said.

"Nothing changes," Greg said. "Go get Mark."

"Which stair?" Warner asked. She stepped to the Diagnostics phone. Greg pointed. Warner nodded and picked up the phone. She dialled and spoke tersely, giving brief instructions, then put the phone down.

"You were happy with Mark," Greg said. He was watching Warner. "You'll be happy again."

Warner headed towards the door. She stopped by Greg, and looked at him. "This discussion isn't over."

"We're done," Greg said. "You left me before, you'll leave me again. Mark's willing to do whatever it takes to make you happy. I can't. I'm not willing to go there again."

"House - "

Greg shuddered all over. He stared at Stacy, stared at Wilson as if realising he was there for the first time, his eyes wide and blue. "Goodbye," he said.

Stacy nodded, and walked out. Greg looked at Wilson. He swallowed and said nothing.

Wilson lifted his hand to clip the leash on to Greg's collar.

"Don't do this," Greg said.

"You want to stay in there all night," Wilson said, nodding his head at the cubicle, "No food, no company, just stay in there and be miserable?"

"She's better off without me," Greg said.

"That's probably true," Wilson said. He clipped the leash on to Greg's collar. "Let's go."

He tugged. Greg didn't move.

"Come on," Wilson said, annoyed. The leash wasn't that good for moving an unwilling slave: he'd have to get security for that. "You want a thrashing?"

"Tough love make you feel good? Helping people feel their pain?"

Wilson wrapped the end of the leash firmly round his hand and gave it a jerk. "Let's _go_, Greg," he said calmly, and this time, Greg moved.

_*tbc*_

_In case you wondered... just like on the show, that **is** the end of the Stacy arc. I always thought she and Mark must have something good going that Stacy actively wanted to return to, even if she also loved House, and I hope I tried to convey that. But now Wilson has Greg all to himself..._

_(Gratuitious Plug: For a darker version of how the CollarRedux universe might go, read Tailkinker's "Pain Control")  
_


	12. Distractions

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

**2.12 Distractions**

Wilson found he had to keep tugging on the leash, to keep Greg moving. It was cold outside. He liked knowing he had Greg on a leash, when his slave obediently followed. He liked it even when Greg, as tonight, was shivering and malingering, acting lamer than he was, and Wilson had to match his pace. He still liked the look of the silvery tag against Greg's throat.

Whether or not Stacy was actually planning to be gone by Monday, Wilson didn't think she'd be a problem again.

He hesitated a moment before handing the leash to Greg in the car, as usual, but Greg just took it, indifferently, and stared out of the window: he had to be told to belt himself in, but he did it when Wilson reminded him.

"What do you want to eat?" Wilson asked him. Greg looked at him and shrugged.

"Thai? Pizza? Are you hungry?"

"No."

"You need something before you can have your painkillers," Wilson ruled. "When did you last eat?" He hadn't brought Greg lunch, and there hadn't been much chance for Greg to get down to the slave canteen.

"Chase bought me tacos," Greg said after a minute. He said it in a disconnected kind of way, as if he did not associate what he was saying with anything he was feeling, neither hunger nor a friendly gesture. If it was a friendly gesture. Wilson didn't trust Chase.

"Good," Wilson said briefly. He'd order Thai.

The desk clerk looked up as Wilson came in, and called him over. "Doctor Wilson! Excuse me - I have a message for you - "

Wilson paused. Greg stood still as soon as Wilson stopped, looking ahead, not turning to see what the problem was.

"Mr Dennis said he would like to speak to you when you came in, Doctor Wilson," the desk clerk said. "Would you mind just waiting here for a minute while I call him?" The clerk was already tapping out a short number on his desk phone, so Wilson shrugged, resigned: "All right."

Mr Dennis was the night manager, apparently. His name-badge said so. He wanted a private word with Wilson in his office, and since "private" could easily mean "confidential by AMA rules", Wilson considered for an instant, and simply took Greg's cane away. Greg stared at him, and looked round, as if realising suddenly where he was. Wilson handed him the other end of the leash. "Stay there," Wilson told him, and went into the manager's office.

This wasn't a medical matter: the manager was extremely polite and long-winded about it, but the fact was, he hesitated to mention it, though they would not dream of changing a valued customer who happened to bring a slave back to his room for an occasional night, it did appear that for some weeks now Doctor Wilson had been effectively a double-occupancy, since it appeared that Doctor Wilson had acquired a personal slave. A very distinguished-looking and doubtless very valuable slave, the hotel's compliments, but the fact is, Doctor Wilson -

The hotel wanted Wilson to pay the rate changed for a free person staying with their personal slave, rather than - as Wilson had been paying up till now - the rate for a single person occupying a double room. Once Wilson realised this he produced his credit card, and once the manager realised Wilson was quite willing to backdate his payments, they only had to establish at what point the personal slave ("Greg? - Excellent name, Doctor Wilson, very appropriate - how long Greg had been staying routinely overnight in Wilson's room.") Wilson admitted that Greg did not literally belong to him but to his employer, which made it a slightly different tariff. They worked out together what the total back pay was, the manager magnanimously took 10% off, Wilson charged it, and the room rate would of course be higher for the future.

In the hall outside, Greg was gone. The desk clerk was talking on the phone to another guest: the night manager's door was shut: for an instant of pure panic, Wilson envisaged Greg limping away, a crippled older slave, unnoticed and assumed to be valueless, to be found the next day somewhere - curled up next to a heating vent, dead of cold when the vent switched off -

The desk clerk put the phone down. "Doctor Wilson? I'm sorry, security insisted your slave wait somewhere else."

"Where is he?" Wilson demanded sharply.

"He's in the security room," the desk clerk said. "They have a holding area there. I was just speaking to the guard on duty now; he says he's on his own but they can bring your slave up to your room in twenty minutes, or if you don't object to a walk down to the security room, you can collect him now."

Wilson was so relieved he almost staggered. "Now," he said, briefly: waiting for Greg to be delivered would be intolerable, and he had the presumption - he realised, on his way down in the elevator, probably misjudged - that the security guards here would feel free to make sexual use of Greg. The security guards at PPTH had been free to make use of Greg because he was the property of the hospital that employed them: the security staff here ought to have a different attitude to slaves of the guests.

The security room was large and shabby, but virtually empty: there were two desks, only one of them occupied, a wire metal cage big enough to hold Greg, but empty, several large worn sofas that looked as if they had moved downstairs from some refitting of the hotel, and a large metal luggage trolley. It took Wilson a long moment to realise that Greg was sitting on the luggage trolley, his leash wrapped round the handle.

The security man sitting at the desk stood up and came over. "Doctor Wilson?" He unhooked the leash. "Come on, boy, your owner's here. Sorry, Doctor Wilson, he seems docile enough tonight, but this is the same slave that was involved in that altercation in the car park, isn't he?"

"Yes," Wilson said, taking hold of the leash. He tugged slightly. "Greg?"

Greg's head lifted: his eyes opened. He saw Wilson. He didn't otherwise move. Wilson handed him his cane and made a "get up" gesture with his hands, and Greg began effortfully levering himself to his feet.

"Well, it's the policy at this hotel not to give any slave two chances. If you leave him unattended or if there's any trouble, we'll take him down here. He seemed quiet enough, and Ray said you were just dealing with Mr Dennis, so I didn't put him in the cage. My guy who brought him down, by the way, he said I should make clear to you that the slave said he was supposed to stay there and wait for you."

Wilson nodded. Greg was on his feet now. Wilson tucked on the leash again. "Come on, Greg."

"Just to be clear about that," the security man said, again. "Your slave knew he was supposed to stay and wait for you. We brought him down here from where you left him."

"Got it," Wilson said, not particularly interested now he had Greg back, and went out: the lift whisked him back to his own floor, and, at last, an uninterrupted evening and a whole weekend ahead of him. He sat Greg down on the bed, unclipping the leash from his collar and taking the cane away again, and went to put his own things away: hanging up his jacket, putting his briefcase away, emptying out his pockets. His cellphone went into the room safe. After a moment's consideration, he took the cuffs out.

The bed was empty. Greg was slowly making his way into the bathroom. Wilson followed him, meaning to unset the lock so that Greg couldn't shut himself in there, but when he got to the door Greg was down on his knees by the pedestal: his body jerked, and he vomited into it. He went on throwing up for some time, as Wilson watched, half intrigued and half disgusted: by the time he was gasping and choking out nothing but liquid, Wilson was medically interested. This was how Greg had reacted their first evening together, when he'd believed he had been sold to Wilson.

Greg wasn't throwing up bad food or reacting to a virus, Wilson was pretty sure - he wasn't running a fever, he hadn't eaten recently - which pretty definitely left what Wilson would describe to a patient as "nervous stomach": he was vomiting because of anxiety or stress. Other possible reactions were ulcers or acid reflux. Wilson hummed thoughtfully to himself. When Greg stopped vomiting, he was still clinging to the pedestal, evidently not wanting to turn around and face Wilson.

Room service here was limited and expensive. Wilson filled a toothglass with water and picked up Greg's right arm, literally pushing the full glass into it. "Don't brush your teeth," he ordered Greg. "It's bad for the enamel so soon after vomiting. Wash your mouth out with this, and drink a little. Not too much." He walked away then, leaving Greg to drink the water and get up at his own pace. The room service menu offered beef or cheese sandwiches, with chips: Wilson ordered a plain cheese sandwich and a grilled beef sandwich: a bottle of beer for himself, a can of ginger ale for Greg. He got Greg out of the bathroom and made him lie down on the bed, sitting down beside him.

"It would be easier if you'd tell me what you're afraid of," Wilson said. "You know I'm not going to hurt you."

Greg stared up at him. He swallowed, turned his head away from Wilson, and shook, making a noise it took Wilson a moment, dumbfounded, to interpret as laughter: Greg was _laughing_ at him.

Wilson stood up, took a couple of deep slow breaths to calm himself down, to remember his promise. He even went over to the wall safe, got his phone out, and sent a quick e-mail to Foreman to let him know that Wilson was concerned that Greg might have ulcers or acid reflux, to check him out on Monday. Greg hadn't moved when Wilson came back to the bed, and he cooperated only to the smallest extent as Wilson stripped him. He didn't resist, either: his limbs and body were heavy and limp as Wilson pulled his t-shirt and then his jeans off. He was wearing new, not slave-issue, undershorts: Wilson noticed as he was removing them. Something else Warner had bought for him.

When Greg was naked, Wilson rolled him over on to his back. Greg blinked up at the ceiling, not moving. Wilson took his right wrist and slipped the cuff on: Greg reacted to that, but too late - Wilson wasn't as fast as a guard, but Greg was slow this evening.

"I just want you to remember," Wilson told him levelly, "that you belong to me, you're tagged for me, and you get used how and by whom I choose."

Greg's head was lifted from the pillow at a strained angle for his neck. He was staring at Wilson, wide-eyed. Wilson reached out and ran a finger along Greg's throat just where collar met flesh, stirring the tag. "You're mine, Greg. You don't have anything to worry about or think about beyond that. On Monday you're going back to the hospital to work for Diagnostics, just like usual - I don't want you to worry about that either - but tonight, you're all mine."

He lay down beside Greg, enjoying everything about this: Greg naked except for his collar, helplessly shackled, rigid-helpless resistance melting as Greg realised there was nothing he could do. Greg's mouth opened a little: Wilson reminded himself not to kiss him, his mouth still probably stank a little of vomit. But he thought, staring down into Greg's face, tenderly stroking Greg's side down to the jut of his hip, leisurely anticipating the gentle exploration of the great scar on his thigh, that this could only be better if Greg was gagged. Not tonight, not even if he'd thought to bring an official gag from the hospital or buy one: too much risk if Greg were going to throw up again. But some night, soon. He thought about the cage downstairs: Greg had spent time in that cage, though Wilson hadn't witnessed it. When he had his own place, he could have a cage built for Greg: he could justify it on security grounds, if he had to, somewhere secure to keep the valuable slave off hospital premises. But he would love knowing that Greg was locked away, just his, to be taken out when Wilson wanted him.

There was a knock on the door. Greg flinched - a whole-body twitch, that nearly jerked him off the bed. Wilson grabbed at him and pulled him back. Room service.

"Don't worry," Wilson said fondly, and got up to open the door.

The slave who delivered the tray of food put it down on the table and went out again without apparently noticing the naked, cuffed man on the bed. Wilson rolled Greg on to his back and heaved his head up on both the pillows. He made Greg drink some ginger ale, then fed him a mouthful of potato chips. "Keep those down, and you can have the cheese sandwich," Wilson promised, before he picked up his own sandwich and bit into it. Corned beef on rye, no pickles: tasty enough, but they charged for speed of service, not haute cuisine. He ate half his own sandwich, sporadically feeding Greg more potato chips and sips of ginger ale.

It seemed that Greg was recovered from his bout of vomiting. Wilson tore off a bitesize piece of cheese sandwich, and handfed it to Greg, who ate obediently. Wilson went on feeding Greg the plain cheese sandwich slowly, taking occasional bites of his own sandwich: Greg seemed at one point to have longing eyes fixed on Wilson's food, but Wilson ignored this. He would make sure Greg got a substantial, plain breakfast tomorrow, and make time on Monday to clarify to Foreman what the problem was. He finished off Greg's meal with another couple of sips of ginger ale, and set aside the can for later: Greg was due to get his painkillers in twenty minutes or so.

Wilson lay down beside Greg again and just held him, petting the scar on his leg gently, nuzzling against his face and neck. He had a comfortable sense of reassurance and rightness. He had claimed Greg, fed him, cared for him, and soon, after he'd given Greg his meds, he would fuck him. Whatever Warner had done with Greg in Baltimore was irrelevant. It wasn't as if Greg had any real right to refuse: it was Warner's fault for making use of a slave she knew was tagged. He shouldn't be angry with a slave he had promised to care for. Wilson's hand moved, gently, on the scarred flesh. He liked Greg. He wasn't going to hurt Greg. But the thought of making Greg scream was turning him on.

Wilson gave Greg his meds with another mouthful of ginger ale. He'd picked up a bottle of handcream in the clinic this morning: that would do for lubricant. He could do a little shopping tomorrow. Given the cuffs, the most comfortable position for Greg, and one Wilson would enjoy, was on his back, his legs over Wilson's shoulders. It took Wilson a little while to get Greg into position: when Greg realised what Wilson was doing he went heavily uncooperative again. Wilson slid a handful of cream over his erection. Greg lay there, his hands cuffed together on his belly, his face closed-off, the collar dark against his neck, the silver tag shining. Wilson smiled at him. "You're going to like this," he promised.

Wilson sank into pleasure. Greg was tight. He grunted once as Wilson slid inside him, his mouth opening, his eyes going wider and darker. His fingers tangled together: his expression was still closed-off. Wilson frowned, pleasure-hot, thrusting deeper: he knew when he should have hit Greg's prostate. He jerked his hips, forcing a small cry out of Greg's mouth: "Oh ho," Wilson breathed. He jerked his hips again, and Greg tried to hold still, but, clearly quite against his will, when Wilson fucked him deeper, Greg's body twitched a response: and his dick was rising, swelling. Wilson wasn't even touching him. He could handle Greg whenever he wanted, reach for more of the handcream and give Greg a little appreciation, but it was more interesting to see how hard Greg could get just from being fucked.

That was why Greg tried to avoid getting fucked. Wilson grinned, changing the angle of his thrust a little, watching Greg squirm. He felt so good: Greg was incredible, snug around his dick, sending ripples of pleasure through Wilson. Not because Greg hated it. Because he liked it too much. Wilson thought he could make Greg climax, just from being fucked, and the idea sent another hot curl of pleasure through him. Greg's hands were clutching each other, twitching and struggling in the cuffs, his mouth open, his eyes wide, making noises, wordless, sobbing grunts. Wilson gripped his arms, stilling those hands, thinking of bruises, thinking of slapping Greg's face, thinking of the noise a whip would make landing across Greg's back, he was thrusting harder and harder into Greg, the noises Greg was making filling his ears, until he came, pinning Greg down and filling him.

Greg had come. Wilson was grinning in triumph as he felt the wetness between them. He slid out of Greg's ass, wishing he had seen it happen. Greg was still making odd noises as if he was going to come. Wilson lifted his head, studying Greg: he realised, with a curious pang at the pit of his stomach, that Greg was crying. Tears were welling up at the corners of Greg's eyes, and though his mouth was tight shut, his chest was shaking with suppressed sobs.

Wilson stared down. He would have liked to fuck Greg all over again. He wanted, in an obscure kind of way, to comfort him.

It wasn't Greg's fault if Warner had sex with him. Wilson reminded himself of this. If it was, if Greg had forgotten that he was tagged, then Wilson had a right to be angry with him. To punish him.

Better for Greg if Wilson never forgot he was just property, and couldn't be held responsible or blamed for how he was used.

Wilson didn't take off the cuffs. He wiped Greg clean and dumped the dirtied towel in the bathroom. He slid into bed beside his slave, tucking both of then under the covers. He held Greg close. He could still feel Greg's body shaking. "You're mine," he whispered in Greg's ear. "All mine."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Foreman had spent the weekend thinking about Greg. He hadn't intended to - in fact, he'd bought tickets for a Monster Truck rally and asked a paediatric nurse to go with him. He and Wendy had a good time: but even so, Greg stayed at the back of Foreman's mind.

How to discipline an insolent, arrogant slave, when the slave is used to being whipped, deals with pain on a regular basis, is treated as the hospital's most valuable possession and so can't be dealt with in any way that could cause him harm, and is - under normal circumstances - actually allowed to give three free people orders?

By Monday morning, Foreman had come up with a couple of ideas. He planned to put them into prompt execution, but as he was sitting at the conference table in the Diagnostics box, he saw not Doctor House, but Greg, shambling along the hall. Greg was limping and walking slowly.

Greg pushed the door open and limped through. He glanced round the room. He didn't say 'hello' to Foreman, or nod, or acknowledge his boss in any way: he just paused to look round, and limped on through to his cubby-hole. He went in and closed the door behind him. Foreman stood up to see more clearly: Greg sat down in the leanback chair, stretched his legs out on the ottoman, and leant his head back. He seemed to look at Foreman through the glass, but then he closed his eyes.

Utter, dumb insolence.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cameron had spent the weekend trying not to worry about Doctor House. She'd gone out to a movie which should have given her a couple of hours escape at minimum - even if it was a run-of-the-mill thriller, and Harrison Ford was playing a computer security specialist and looked his age. The bad guys broke into the family home and took the family hostage, killing their slaves, and ordering Ford to rob the bank for them.

The three slaves were hardly even one-dimensional, bit parts - they were there on screen only to establish that the family were wealthy but not fabulously so. Killing the slaves was a cliche in this kind of thriller, it was an easy way to indicate how ruthless the bad guys were without killing off anyone the audience would identify with.

Cameron hadn't yet - she kept telling herself, _yet_ - made any real friends in New Jersey. The Diagnostics fellowship meant unpredictable hours. It was difficult to explain that she was working for a slave, but she wouldn't have felt right lying about it. At the hospital, she hung out mostly with Foreman and Chase, because everyone else who worked at the hospital _knew_ she worked for a slave.

Going home afterwards, her mind kept going back to Harrison Ford's closed-off, grim look as he realised the bad guys had taken control of his home and his family, and he had to do exactly what they said. They hadn't put a collar on him. But it was almost like they'd enslaved him. No wonder she hadn't been able to stop thinking about Doctor House.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Chase spent the weekend hiking. He drove up to Kittatinny Ridge with a beer buddy and they hiked up to the Appalachian Trail, slept out in one of the trail shelters Saturday night with enough beer to get happy on, and drove back Sunday evening. He thought about House once the entire weekend, when they passed a family out dayhiking and the little girl and the younger mom were both coughing.

Monday morning he showed up with a box of doughnuts and a bag of popcorn, looking forward to a week of House and Foreman going head to head. Foreman was in House's cubby-hole, door closed, yelling at House: Cameron was on her feet by the table, looking very uncomfortable.

"What's up?"

"House says he's not doing clinic duty this morning," Cameron said.

"He's not allowed to say that," Chase said. Cameron looked even more uncomfortable, and Chase added thoughtfully, "Though what's Foreman going to do, call security?"

Foreman stormed out of the cubby hole and stood there, looking at them both. "You heard that?"

"Are you going to call security?" Chase asked curiously.

"I can't just let him get away with this," Foreman said. "He's got two hours clinic duty this morning, he can't just say he won't do it."

Chase stepped to one side to peer past Foreman. House was collapsed on the Eames chair, looking as if he had been dropped there, white and tired. His eyes were closed, though he couldn't be asleep. He looked nothing like the confident slave of Friday morning.

"He looks exhausted," Chase said. "What happened to him over the weekend?"

As one, their three heads turned to look at the Oncology office, through the wall. It was like it must be, Chase thought, if you actually _saw_ someone being eaten by a croc.

"He doesn't have to do clinic duty if he has a case," Cameron said.

"So let's go find him one," Chase said.

Foreman picked up the phone . "I'll call the clinic." He looked at them soberly. "Find one fast."

Chase came back from the burn unit with a file and a cheerful grin. He walked into the Diagnostics box saying happily "Guess what, they're _asking_ for Doctor House - "

"We have a case," Foreman said. Cameron looked up anxiously. There was no file on the table.

"This one is good," Chase said.

"Greg," Foreman said. "Doctor Wilson e-mailed me on Friday: prolonged vomiting. Now Cameron tells me Greg was vomiting last week. Differential diagnosis."

"He throws up when he's scared shitless," Chase said. "Lots of people do. Burns unit has a patient, sixteen-year-old boy, burns over 40% of his body. His heart rate is a mess. They're pumping him full of fluids but his potassium levels are going down, not up - "

The door of the cubbyhole opened. Greg came out. He stood there looking at Chase without much expression. "And they're asking for me."

"Could be amphetamines," Foreman said. "Tachycardia could be explained by the burn."

"Which I assume the burn unit knows," Greg said. He lifted his chin. "Okay. Get me a reading on his heart. If there's not enough skin for an EKG, use a galvanometer."

When none of them moved, Greg looked at Foreman. "Right, Boss?"

Foreman handed him the file. "Sit down. Read through this."

"Will there be a quiz?" Greg sat down, looking up at Foreman. "Cameron. Go get a family history. Find out what kind of drugs he's on that his parents know about. Then find out what he's on that they don't know about."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"Phone call from Nirag," Cuddy's assistant warned her. "I have someone's assistant on hold for their CEO Research."

"Nirag?" Cuddy looked up. "Bafs SVF Nirag? The pharmaceutical company? Why are they calling me?"

"The assistant just said CEO Research wanted to talk to the Chief Administrator, and when I checked he said Doctor Lisa Cuddy, except he thought you were 'Linda' Cuddy."

Cuddy glanced at her watch. She usually avoided dealing with pharmaceutical representatives. But Bafs SVF Nirag were a French company, they didn't often deal direct with PPTH: and the CEO Research of a pharmaceutical company did not usually do sales calls.

"Okay," she said. "Tell the assistant I have ten minutes, ten minutes from now. Bring me coffee now. And in twenty minutes. come in and tell me I have an urgent meeting."

Twenty-five minutes later she put the phone down. CEO Research had been very insistant that PPTH at least consider Nirag's bid. Cuddy had repeatedly said that PPTH had no intention of selling Doctor House: that this was not a strategy to drive up the price. She had even acknowledged to the woman, under the rose, that PPTH held on to House because without him the hospital would be just another small-scale teaching hospital, not the internationally-known name that it was. That they had turned down Edward Vogler. (CEO Research had heard of that, and been impressed.)

"Check the drug records of the long-term ICU patients," Cuddy told her assistant. "And get me all of Greg's e-mails sent to addresses SVFNirag. If there are none, I need someone from IT to check his hard drive - the records will be on there somewhere."

"Do you want Greg?" the assistant asked.

"If he's in the clinic, have him brought here, urgently. If he has a case, I want him here, urgently, as soon as the case is over. Don't notify Doctor Foreman or Doctor Wilson until security are on their way."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Foreman walked into Greg's cubby-hole. The blinds were down and the lights were switched off. He was lying on the floor. Worried, Foreman knelt down and checked his vitals: Greg's eyes flicked open as soon as Foreman touched his pulse.

"Are you all right?"

"I have a migraine," Greg said. "And I was right." He closed his eyes again.

Foreman stood up, switched the light on, and glanced round the office. There was a non-standard phial of a Nirag drug on the desk... and nitroglycerine, in a PPTH-standard phial.

Foreman pocketed both phials. He looked down at Greg, who had put an arm up to shield his eyelids from the light.

_You poor bastard,_ he nearly said, out loud. It was almost going-home time: they had set the maggots to eat the dead flesh of the boy's burns, and would see if this resolved the possible infection that possibly was causing the boy's problems. There was no reason for Greg to have to stay at the hospital, and he knew it.

Foreman waited till Wilson was done with the last one-on-one oncology patient of the day, and went in to tell him "Greg has a migraine."

"What?" Wilson said, frowning. "He's not liable to migraines."

"He's lying down in a darkened room and I've ensured he has appropriate pain medication and water to hand," Foreman said. "Sleep would be best. I'll inject a mild sedative before I go."

"I'll do that," Wilson said.

"No, I will," Foreman said. He took both phials out of his pocket and set them on Wilson's desk. "The migraine was self-induced." He stood up, keeping his face expressionless. He didn't want Wilson to get the idea that Foreman didn't like him. "I guess he really doesn't want to go home with you tonight, Doctor Wilson."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"You induced a migraine," Wilson said.

Greg was lying on the floor. He didn't move, except his eyelids twitched, flinching under the light.

"These are prescription drugs, non-FDA approved, illegal in this country, that you obtained ... how?"

Greg didn't answer.

"I looked up Doctor Phillip Weber. He runs the Weber Center for Pain. He studied at Johns Hopkins, the same years you were there. He got the Doyle internship at the Mayo clinic the year you were thrown out for cheating in a math test. You know Weber."

Greg's head twitched.

"He sent you these drugs," Wilson said out loud. He watched Greg's face, eyes closed, mouth set. "Foreman thinks you induced a migraine because you didn't want to come back to the hotel with me tonight, but you induced a migraine so that you could try out his treatment. What else is he sending you? How are you getting these drugs?" Wilson got tired of looking at Greg's closed-off face, and prodded Greg's ribs, ungently, with the toe of his shoe.

Greg turned his head to one side, eyes closed. Wilson prodded his ribs again.

"I believe you actually have a migraine," Wilson said. "There's no point in taking you anywhere. But you need to learn you aren't allowed to do this. You're under my care and control. I won't allow you to damage yourself like this."

He switched off the light and turned to go.

Greg's voice, from the dark, startled him. "I'm better at this," he said.

"What?"

"This," Greg said. His voice sounded very tired and far away. "Hospital equipment. Better at this."

Wilson snorted. "You're not much use to anyone like _this_," he said, annoyed. He went out, slamming the door to behind him.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cameron came in early the next day, but Doctor Wilson was already there. Doctor House was sitting at the table in the conference room with a bottle of water and a plain toasted bagel in front of him. His head was bent and he was making no effort to eat or drink. Wilson stopped talking when Cameron came in, and looked at her.

"Do you still have a migraine?" Cameron asked House, pointedly ignoring Wilson. "You should have been better by now."

"I'm super. Patient?"

"The maggots did great for the burn, but the brainwaves are still all over the map."

House looked up. "Which means your regular old infection isn't causing his brain dysfunction, which means there's an underlying condition which means we've got to get inside his head. Do a lumbar puncture."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Chase found Greg in the supplies cupboard. He'd guessed he would have hidden there. The boy was still seizing, and they'd been eliminating all possible causes: Greg had disappeared from view about five minutes after Doctor Wilson went on grand rounds, and Chase was fairly sure that he'd gone somewhere he could think uninterrupted. The roof was too bright for a migraine sufferer, Wilson had free access to the balcony, and Foreman had free access to the cubbyhole.

Greg was sitting on the floor with a blanket over his knees. Chase squatted down beside him. Greg opened his eyes and stared at Chase.

"We did the spinal tap. He doesn't have MS or an infection."

Chase knew both the look of Greg the slave and House the doctor: this wasn't either of them. Greg's pupils were shrunk to tiny dots, he looked at Chase as if he barely saw him.

"I'm hallucinating," Greg said slowly. He stared at Chase. "I see music..."

Chase stared. "Your patient is _dying_ and you decided to get high?"

Greg didn't answer. He was still looking vaguely at Chase. His head weaved. "You're ugly," he said finally. "No music..."

"What did you take?" Chase said. He was both angry and scared. "What the hell did you take?"

He got no answer. Greg was staring at the floor, as if he saw something too fascinating to ignore.

"What do you think he took?" Cameron asked.

"LSD," Foreman said. He looked furious. "I don't know where he got it, but I will bet that was it. LSD has been shown to be effective as a migraine remedy."

"That's not the question," Chase said. "Are we going to report him to Cuddy?"

Cameron said, her voice appalled, "You know if we do, he'll be ..." her voice trailed off.

"He'll be whipped," Foreman said. He was angry. "And I don't see that will do any good. But can you honestly say he doesn't deserve it?"

Chase remembered the boy, flat on his back, burned over so much of his body, dying. Whatever Wilson had done to Greg over the weekend (_so scared he was throwing up_) he'd left Greg's body intact. "No," he said finally. Both he and Foreman looked at Cameron.

"No," Cameron said, finally. She was distressed, but clear. "But what about Adam?"

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The longer they left Greg hallucinating in whatever hidey-hole he'd found, the more anxious Foreman got: but they had to have a diagnosis for Adam or he would die. They had done every single medical test they could safely do on a burns patient: there was no more data to be gathered.

Cameron stood up suddenly. Foreman turned his head. Doctor House was walking down the hall, wearing surgical scrubs. He thought he heard Chase sigh with relief.

"Where the hell have you been?" Foreman said.

Doctor House lifted his chin. "Scrubbed up, did what none of you morons thought of doing: I examined the unburned portions of our pot roast patient. Cigarette burn on his left arm, nicotine stain on his right hand. He's a secret smoker."

"His parents would know - " Cameron said.

"Yeah, his dad says he'd kill his kid if he started smoking. So the boy buys anti-depressants secretly off the Internet."

"Tox screen was clean," Chase said.

"Yeah, but you know how much crap he's got in his system from dealing with those burns, the guy could have the Spanish Armada floating through his bloodstream and we wouldn't know about it. Until they started firing cannons. And by cannons, I mean repeated seizures and a brain so mixed up it's interpreting pain as pleasure and having orgasms from being handled. Why did none of you morons report that? Nurses who had to clean him up told me. This is a brain with too much serotonin."

"Serotonin affects mood, appetite, it doesn't cause a brain to shut down," Cameron said.

"Antidepressants fake brains into thinking they have more serotonin than they actually do. Every 10 million or so cases, sets off a chain reaction; produces too much, enough to fry itself."

"If Adam has Serotonin Storm, it's deadly," Foreman said. He was angry now.

"But treatable," Chase said. He really did sound relieved. "Cyproheptadine."

"Unless he doesn't have Serotonin Storm," Cameron said. She sounded relieved too, almost happy, even if she was coming up with objections. "He could just as easily have too much dopamine as serotonin, but if it's dopamine the cyproheptadine will kill him."

"We can prove this one way or another," Foreman said. "Chase, Cameron, go check out the patient's home. Find his secret cigarette stash or his anti-depressant stash. Check his computer, find out what he's been buying online. If Greg is right, we administer cyproheptadine. If not..." Foreman hesitated. "Adam's failing. Either Greg's right, or Adam's dead."

"I'm right," Doctor House said. "And since Adam's dead either way, I already ordered administration of cyproheptadine."

Foreman stood up. "I'm overseeing your practice. You have no right - "

"To save the kid's life?" Doctor House looked at Foreman. "Funny. I got the idea that was what we were here for. Kid's already getting better, by the way. Brainwaves are almost normal. I was right."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Doctor Philip Weber wasn't an entirely unexpected visitor, but he was a badly illtimed one. He'd flown up from Virginia, and he wanted to speak to Doctor House.

"I have got nothing but a damned runaround from this hospital," Doctor Weber said.

"I apologise for that," Cuddy said, having cleared ten minutes off her schedule for this meeting. "How can I help you?"

"House works here," Weber said. "He's been running a study here on an experimental medication that the FDA has not yet cleared for use in this country. That drug is a breakthrough."

"I've already been contacted by Bafs SVF Nirag," Cuddy said. "They're very impressed by Doctor House's study." _So impressed that they want to buy him._

"House was an arrogant know-it-all when he and I were med students," Weber said. "He's got personal reasons for bearing a grudge. I want to see his study records. I want to know how he got hold of this drug. I want to know how this study got cleared!"

"I'd like to know those answers too," Cuddy admitted. Satisfying Weber was almost certainly going to mean admitting that Greg was owned by the hospital. Her phone rang.

Foreman's voice. "We got the diagnosis," he said. "I need to speak to you about Greg."

"The patient's recovering?" Cuddy asked.

"As well as any other serious burns patient," Foreman said. "We're done."

Cuddy thanked him, told him her assistant would be in touch about their meeting, and put the phone down. "Doctor Weber, I have a serious disciplinary meeting, very urgent, shortly. Are you staying here?"

His flight was at nine. Cuddy got rid of him, promising him dinner on the hospital before his flight back, inviting him to lecture at PPTH some day soon, promising to see him again in an hour or so when the disciplinary meeting was concluded.

Cuddy listened to what first Foreman, then Wilson, and finally the IT officer who had checked Greg's e-mail records and the ICU head nurse who had checked the coma patients. Greg had been brought to her office without his cane. He was kneeling in front of her desk: Wilson and Foreman were seated on one side of the room, Hayes from IT and Nurse Ross on the other.

"I don't find there's any need to summon a disciplinary hearing of the Board," Cuddy said finally. "This is not an issue of medical misconduct. Greg, you conducted medical experiments on patients without their or their family's consent, making use of a non-FDA-approved drug which you obtained without the approval of the patent-holder, the FDA, or your owner."

"They got headaches," Greg said. "Which they were not awake enough to feel. If getting a migraine woke them up, _that_ would be a breakthrough, unlike Dick Weber's quack migraine-preventation medicine which he's tested on one control group in India and which doesn't even work!"

"Greg," Cuddy said, sharply. "Fifty lashes is what you should receive for abusing a patient. You abused five: two hundred and fifty lashes. Bafs SVF Nirag's research department have insisted on sending PPTH a bid to purchase you, which I will have to put forward for consideration by the Board at the next meeting. Perhaps fortunately, I don't believe their CEO Research cares what physical state you are delivered to them in."

Greg's mouth shut. He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders, making himself look smaller and more submissive.

"Head up," Cuddy said.

After a moment, Greg lifted his head. He looked at her with a closed-off, arrogant expression.

"You self-harmed by taking a non-FDA approved drug, by inducing a migraine by taking nitroglycerine, and by taking an illegal hallucinatory drug to relieve the migraine. For each instance of self-harm, ten lashes: for persistent self-harm, which three instances within 24 hours certainly proves, standard procedure is to immobilise and restrain the slave to prevent further self-harm. Fortunately for you, I don't consider any of these to be serious suicide attempts."

She glanced at Foreman and at Wilson. Wilson had a barely-restrained expression of eagerness on his face as he stared at Greg: well, anyone who wanted to tag and make use of a crippled slave probably had issues about pain. Foreman gave her a closed-off look that was the twin of Greg's, and glowered at Greg.

"Finally, Hayes and Ross have established firmly via ICU records that you have obtained access to the hospital mainframe, which you are not allowed, and Hayes confirms that you are using your e-mail account for communication on matters not directly related to diagnostic consults, which you are not permitted either. Fifty lashes for the unauthorised mainframe access: ten lashes for each unauthorised e-mail: Hayes has found nine. In total, four hundred and twenty lashes."

"That would kill him," Foreman said, in a strangled voice.

"Probably not," Cuddy said, with a shrug. "But it would certainly unfit Greg for work for quite some time, especially as the long period of recovery would have to be accomplished without any pain meds. Greg. Look at me."

Greg's head had twisted to look at Foreman. He looked back at Cuddy swiftly.

"I'm aware that a previous employee of this hospital, who has now resigned, had unfortunately chosen to behave in an unprofessional manner, making unauthorised use of a tagged slave. I choose to assume that your behavior over the past few weeks was due to her emotionally abusive behavior towards you, and to show leniency." Cuddy kept her voice even. She was, in fact, truly angry with Stacy Warner, but she didn't blame Warner wholly for what Greg had been doing. "You will receive fifty lashes tonight and fifty lashes in forty-eight hours. You will be immobilised in the slave ward until your back has healed over. Your access to the Internet is suspended indefinitely: the computer you use will be removed from Diagnostics. Doctor Foreman, please notify the other Diagnostics fellows that Greg is not permitted to access their computers: he is allowed no online time at all until further notice. Ms Hayes, please forward all mail for "Greg House" to the Diagnostic fellows e-mail accounts: they'll now be responsible for replying to it. Ms Ross, Greg is now banned from the ICU and all associated wards, if he attempts to enter on any excuse at any time, call security to have him removed."

They nodded and got up: Cuddy glanced at the other side of the room. "Doctor Wilson, you have the right to witness Greg's punishment, please ask the head of security for the time it will take place. Doctor Foreman, as acting head of Diagnostics you would technically have the right, but I don't recommend you do so as your appointment wil expire shortly."

As she had expected, Wilson left with only one glance at Greg: Greg put his head down and his shoulders hunched up. He was a huddled, scared slave now, nothing more. Foreman stood up. He glanced briefly down at Greg, but he spoke to Cuddy. "Did you ever really intend to give me this job, or were you just trying to stop me from stepping down?"

Cuddy smiled, briefly. "Well, you've got nearly two more weeks in charge. Hopefully the next case will go better."

She called Doctor Weber back. Greg stayed where he was. He would have difficulty getting up without his cane.

When Weber came in, he glanced at the slave, and sat down in the same chair as last time: he said to Cuddy, "If you haven't finished your disciplinary meeting, I would have been glad to wait."

"Almost done," Cuddy said. "The individual responsible will be dealt with. You can request an additional penalty, as you wish, up to fifty lashes."

Weber turned his chair round. Greg lifted his head.

"House?" Weber jumped to his feet. He stared from Greg to Cuddy. "Medical school was twenty years ago, grow up!"

Greg stayed on his knees. "Yeah, you were always the grown-up." His voice had a sarcastic edge, though it was very faint. "Do the responsible thing. Tattletale!"

"You cheated!" Weber snapped.

"I cheated then, you're cheating now! Your drug doesn't work."

"Oh yes," Weber was snarling, "you would like to believe that because it plays right in to your fantasy."

"Your math skills blow, just like they did in med school. I read about your 'breakthough' in _Neuroscience New Delhi_, I wondered why you weren't publishing anywhere in English, I tested your drug, and I was right: it _doesn't_ work. Your pharmaceutical company already told you, didn't they? They're dropping you."

"You waited 20 years to do this," Weber said. "What's next? Break up my marriage?"

Greg grinned, showing most of his teeth. He lifted his chin. "What, you think this is a fashion accessory?"

Weber went white and sat down as if his knees were giving way. "This is not some kind of joke? You're..." He stared at Greg, at Cuddy. "He's a slave?"

"Greg is a valuable asset," Cuddy said coolly. "Though expensive to maintain, and to discipline. He will receive one hundred lashes over the next 48 hours for the various offences he's committed. If you wish him to be punished further...?"

Weber shook his head, sharply, looking sick.

"Or to witness his first fifty lashes before you return tonight?"

"No," Weber said. He stood up again. "I'll... House, how the _hell_ did this happen?"

Greg was again a humble, huddled shape on the floor. He didn't look up.

"He was enslaved for debt after his second fellowship, and I acquired him for PPTH then," Cuddy said.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson watched as the guards fastened Greg up to the whipping post. He was stripped naked, shaking, and passively resisting, throwing his weight against the guards' grip. They lifted his wrists into the cuffs, shackled his left ankle to the ring at the left, used a device that, Wilson realised as they fastened it, supported and immobilised Greg's bad leg.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck and then folded his hands behind his back. He was keyed up with anticipation. There were other people there - security staff, a legal witness - and he didn't want to show too much excitement.

Greg's face was hidden. One of the guards tilted his head back by his hair, and another fastened a gag in his mouth.

The guard with the long single-tailed whip positioned himself, and raised the whip. When the first lash landed, there was a noise almost as loud as a gunshot, and though Greg was gagged, Wilson heard him scream.

Forty-nine more...

_tbc_


	13. Skin Deep

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Sorry about the delay in posting this, I got distracted by another project which should be going up soon... "Seven Stages", or "How to make a slave..."_

**2.13 Skin Deep**

Wilson didn't think he'd ever jerked off so much, the first twenty-four hours after he saw Greg whipped. He couldn't help it: every time he was alone, and sometimes when he wasn't, his thoughts would go back to the room in the basement, Greg restrained, Greg's deep voice screaming, breaking, sobbing: and the heavy, repeated gunshot-cracks of the whip.

He got a paper-cut the second day. It stung like crazy. He stared down at the cut so thin he could hardly see it.

Watching Greg being whipped, in the crowded room, with the smells and the reminders that this wasn't personal, that Greg might not even know he was in the room, that hadn't been so exciting, Wilson admitted to himself: but he didn't intend to miss the second whipping. It had been exciting. Just in a different way.

When he talked to his patients or his colleagues in Oncolgy, Wilson felt like normal. He didn't feel like someone who could hurt someone else for sexual pleasure. And he hadn't, he reminded himself, he hadn't hurt Greg: Greg had done things, more than one, that merited a much more severe punishment. Greg had brought this on himself...

Wilson sat upright, startled. Greg had brought this on himself. All the things he'd done, that he'd let his fellows and this doctor Weber find out about, the trail he'd left on the server -

He went down to the slave recovery ward and signed himself in. There were two other slaves also there, stripped naked and immobolised face down, one male, one female. Wilson ignored them.

"Greg," he said, quietly.

Greg's head twitched. Then he turned his head away from Wilson. He couldn't move anything else. Wilson stood next to him, looking down at the bent head: Greg's hair was thinning over his scalp. Wilson bent down and brushed his hand affectionately through the fine hair.

Greg twitched and shuddered. He looked as if he would have wanted to hunch up, but the shackles round his wrists and ankles held him down.

"I know why you did it," Wilson said quietly. He kept brushing his hand affectionately through Greg's hair. "You were self-harming. You wanted this. The gating pain. The distraction."

Greg's head twitched again. Wilson bent over him. Greg's mouth was closed; his jaw was moving.

"You shouldn't do this," Wilson said. He lifted his head to look. lingeringly, over the bruised, scabbed skin of Greg's back. He wanted to take Greg home with him, and soothe his pain. "Forty-eight hours," Wilson said. "Then I get you. I'll take care of you."

Greg was catheterised. Wilson looked at the chart at the end of the bed. He was recovering normally. The scabs on his back looked ugly, but they were healing over well. He was bruised over most of the upper half of his back: the bruises looked horrible, but Wilson knew that meant they were healing.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

This time, Cuddy made no difficulty about handing Foreman the patient file. Even though Doctor House - _Greg_ - was absent, and would be for a few days. Being whipped. Recovering from being whipped.

"Labs show valium and heroin in her urine," Cameron said, about their latest patient.

"A supermodel on smack, shocker," Chase said, drinking coffee, his eyes on Foreman, even though he was reacting to what Cameron had said.

Foreman got up and went over to the whiteboard, where he'd listed the symptoms on the patient's file. "Okay, let s start crossing out withdrawal symptoms."

"A positive test means she tried it once. Doesn't mean she s an addict. She's only fifteen," Cameron protested.

"There's no age limit on addiction," Foreman said firmly. He'd known junkies younger than this kid, with less money to get their fix.

"She's never menstruated," Chase noted. "Sounds like a symptom of drug addiction to me."

"Or bulimia," Cameron countered, "or her age. Some girls don't start till their mid to late teens." She stared at the whiteboard. "Even if she is an addict a lot of her symptoms, the cataplexy, the violence, they could be neurological. We chalk this up to drugs we could be releasing her with juvenile MS, or Parkinson's - "

"Detox her," Chase said, with a shrug.

"Fine," Foreman said, realizing with annoyance that this practical suggestion delayed further diagnosis on the patient probably till after Greg was back at work. "We'll set her up on a program; they ll wean her onto the methadone. Chase, would you go talk to the addictions clinic?"

"Sure," Chase said, after a moment's considering silence. Cameron stood up to go with him.

"We should talk," Foreman said, quite gently. The door closed behind Chase. "Having differing opinions is fine," he said. "But I'd like to confirm you're not just contradicting everything I say because you're mad at me for reporting Greg to Cuddy." He paused. "We _agreed_ he should be reported. He took LSD when he had a patient."

"I know," Cameron said. "I just..."

"You just want to blame me because I'm the one who actually went to Cuddy's office and told her?"

"A hundred lashes," Cameron said suddenly, woefully. "He's _never_ had that many at once before."

"He's had ninety before," Foreman said. "And this time it was going to be over four hundred, he'd managed to rack up such a crime sheet, except Cuddy decided he couldn't take that many and knocked it down to one hundred."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

This time was different. Greg was naked: his back was a mess. Fifty cuts from a single-tail whip had left it bruised and bloody and scabbed-over. He wasn't struggling even by passive resistance: when the guards carried him in his eyes were closed, and even when they began to shackle him up he didn't fight, he only started screaming, a high thin noise. The guards stuffed a gag into his mouth, which muffled the scream. Wilson was erect, his cock pushing against his pants, he was even closer than last time and the sound of Greg's screaming was enticing.

The guard positioned himself. A different one from last time. He had heavy eyebrows, dark hair, brown eyes.

The whip cracked. Greg yelled: a loud wordless noise of agony. He shook his head. He seemed to be trying to make words through the gag. He couldn't struggle, he was triced up too firmly, but his body was shaking.

This time, well before the guard got halfway through, Greg's screaming had reduced to exhausted, barely-audible whimpers. The whip still cracked down, relentlessly, and blood was running down Greg's back. Wilson had actually lost track of the numbers, focussing in on each whiplash, watching the trail form on the skin as the whip hit. He was hard as a rock, he wanted to fuck Greg right there and then.

"Fifty," the official teller said. He looked at Wilson. "Do you want to...?" he asked.

"Yes," Wilson said, and was standing behind Greg, his cock out and hard, lubed. Greg's legs were spread wide enough apart that his asshole was easily accessed: Wilson slid right in, penetrating Greg, leaning close to the bloody, bruised shoulders, opening his mouth to kiss the marks the whip had left and make Greg whimper with pain and lust. Greg was hard, making helpless little thrusts into the air as he shook and whimpered in his bonds: Wilson fucked him harder, harder, feeling Greg come and tighten around his cock perfectly, forcing Wilson over the edge into orgasm.

Then he woke up.

He was staring at the ceiling in his hotel room. He had had a wet dream like a horny teenager. It was the morning of the second day: this evening Greg would be whipped again. Fifty more. Of course Wilson wouldn't fuck Greg at the whipping post. Of course the guard wouldn't be Wilson, of course Wilson didn't want to whip Greg himself.

He was just fiercely sexually turned on by seeing it done. He could witness it. He could visit Greg in the slave ward, immobilised, face down. Then he could get Greg back to this hotel room, and spend all the time with him he wanted. He could kiss the whip marks. Only Greg would ever know, and who cared what a slave knew?

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"New symptom," Chase announced, walking into the Diagnostics office. "Anterograde amnesia, short term memory loss."

"Sure?" Foreman asked.

Chase rolled his eyes. "She told me 'I got the cute doctor' three times."

"Maybe she thinks you're cute," Cameron said flatly.

"Not that cute," Foreman said.

"Also she kept saying 'Are you mad at me daddy? I let you down.' He kept telling her the only thing that mattered was for her to get better, but..." Chase shook his head.

"MRI and LP," Foreman said.

"Already got them lined up," Chase said. "Figured it had to be a brain injury, we should try to find it."

The MRI turned out to be impossible: Alex had developed a twitch. The LP showed elevated proteins in her CSF. This could mean viral encephalitis, CNSV, Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, to name but a few of the possible problems: Foreman decided they needed to do a brain biopsy, and for that, he needed Cuddy's permission.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson made an appointment to talk with Cuddy that afternoon. He didn't go near the slave ward.

Foreman came out of Cuddy's office as Wilson went in: they glanced at each other and Wilson gave a cold little nod. He wasn't impressed by Foreman, who liked to act like the boss of Greg.

"I'd like you to cancel or at least postpone the next fifty lashes," he said.

Cuddy's face went stonily impassive. "Would you?"

"Yes," Wilson said. "You know why he did all those things - _he wanted to get punished_ " - he was upset about losing Stacy Warner, again."

"I know that," Cuddy said harshly. She stopped talking and waited a moment as WIlson stared at her, surprised. "Do you think I don't understand that?" she went on, in her usual smooth tones. "But he did commit those offenses. And inducing migraines in unconsenting patients _is_ a crime - even if they were all in comas."

"Yes," Wilson conceded. "But the state of his back - "

"There will be scars," Cuddy agreed. "But judicial whippings cause no long term damage, aside from the cosmetic, which as a hospital we regard as unimportant."

"It's not just that," Wilson said. "Yesterday, when I paid a visit to the slave ward, he was tired and vulnerable. I spoke to him. I think I reached him. You wanted me to tag him, to calm him down."

"That's been a rousing success so far, hasn't it?" Cuddy said dryly.

"If you let me take him home tonight," Wilson said baldly, "and let me take care of him for a couple of days, let me tell him that I persuaded you to forego the rest of his punishment and his time in the slave ward, I think I can get through to him."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The brain biopsy showed no white matter disease.

"So white is out," Foreman said, "that just leaves grey. Neuronal ceroid lipofuscinosis, Heller syndrome. Or any one of the mitochondrial encephalopathies."

"We can't test for any of those things," Cameron said.

"So we wait," Chase said.

"For something to change?" Foreman tapped his pen against the table. That was Greg's last resort, when he got truly stuck.

Chase leaned back in his chair and looked at Foreman, assessingly. "For Doctor House to get out of the basement."

"You think we can't do this without him?" Foreman said.

Chase shrugged. "Evidently we can't."

Foreman got up and went to the whiteboard again, looking down the list of symptoms in his own handwriting.

"What would House do?" Cameron asked from behind him.

"Something crazy," Foreman said. He was thinking of the time Greg, weak as a sick cat after a rapid detox, had figured out the diagnosis by asking each of them one thing they hadn't written down. With the end of the whiteboard marker, he touched each of the symptoms of heroin detox, which he had relisted at the side of the whiteboard. "What would be the craziest thing he could suggest?" He was thinking out loud. "Get the girl on a rapid detox with naltrexone. Put her in a coma so she sleeps through it. That way we eliminate all of the detox symptoms."

He turned round and looked at Chase and Cameron. "What's the craziest thing you can think of?" he asked frankly.

Cameron glanced at the wall they shared with the Oncology office. "Cancer," she said.

Chase smirked. "Her dad's doing her."

"What?" Foreman and Cameron both jolted with surprise. "How do you know?" - "Why haven't you reported it?"

"I don't know," Chase protested. "You said - the craziest thing I can think of. The way he talks about her in these interviews - " he patted the fluttery stack of the magazines in front of him on the table. "He doesn't sound like her dad. He sounds like her owner. Going by that, he's either screwing her, or he's going to sell her."

Cameron made a disgusted noise. Foreman glared. "Fine," he said finally, levelly. "I'll put her into a coma and give her the antagonist for a rapid detox. Cameron, you find out if the father's doing her. _Or_ planning to sell her. Chase, do an ultrasound scan, see if she's got cancer."

"Why?" Cameron said. "I don't believe - "

"Because you're the only one of us who could get the dad to admit to screwing his daughter," Foreman said. "If he did."

"What if he's planning to sell her, and she found out?" Chase said. "He wouldn't need to be doing her himself to be putting her through enough mental hell to give her PTSD."

"PTSD doesn't account for these symptoms," Foreman said.

"Cancer doesn't either," Chase said.

"Paraneoplastic syndrome does," Cameron said, a little aggressively.

"Paraneoplastic syndrome is awfully rare in a fifteen year old," Foreman said neutrally.

"It explains the aggressive behavior, the cataplexy, the memory loss, and the twitching," Cameron said. "And everything else could be detox."

"We'd have to find the tumor," Chase said.

"Has Doctor Wilson gone for the day?" Cameron asked, her voice so consciously neutral it was conspicuous.

"Let's find out," Foreman said, grinning for the first time. "_After_ she's in a coma."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The ward orderlies unfastened the bonds that held Greg immobile to the bunk. Wilson waited by the door as they handled him into an upright position and began to walk him out. They had him cuffed and shackled, but as in Wilson's dream, he wasn't even trying to struggle: he was passively being moved, neither cooperating nor fighting.

Greg's head lifted as he passed Wilson, and he looked at him. Hatred and fear, Wilson had expected. There was an intensity in Greg's eyes, like longing: Wilson looked forward to responding to it.

The orderlies manoevered Greg into the back of Wilson's car, facedown. They had got him into the lower half of a set of surgical scrubs: he would ordinarily not have left the ward until he could get re-dressed in jeans and a t-shirt,.

"Message from Doctor Cuddy," one of the orderlies said, once Greg was settled. "He's not to have any prescription-strength painkillers till Sunday night."

It was late Thursday now. Cuddy was ensuring that Greg would be in a hell of pain till Sunday.

"Okay," Wilson said, saving his breath, and got into his car. He had already got single-dose phials and a supply of needles in his hotel room. Greg was barely making a sound: only his nervous, ragged breathing. Once he was driving, out of the hospital garage, he said "It's okay, Greg."

There was no sound at all from the back seat.

"I've got to get you upstairs to my room," Wilson said. "I've got a surprise for you there. You'll like it."

Greg's breathing stopped, hitched, and went on with a jerky quality, snuffling.

"I can't tell whether you can hear me or not," Wilson said, driving carefully. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be all right. I don't want to ask the security staff to help," and he didn't want anyone but himself to see Greg's raw back, "so I was just going to borrow a luggage trolley. You'll be all right on that, won't you?"

He got Greg up to his room without their being seen: he made Greg sit up on the trolley, instead of lying face down, so it wouldn't look like he was transporting a body.

One of the benefits of paying the owner-and-slave rate was that the hotel had now provided him with a futon that he could have rolled out on the floor for any nights he didn't choose to allow his slave in his bed. (The brochure of slave-related services actually used that phrasing.)

Wilson walked Greg into the room, got him to lie face down on his bed, and used the cuffs to lock one of Greg's wrists to the bed: he fastened Greg's collar on the other side, using the leash. He paused a moment, getting that twinge of pleasure in his gut at the sight of Greg fastened to his bed: some of the scabs on his back had cracked. He had been silent and subdued all the way up, but Wilson knew better than to assume he was incapable of action.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Wilson promised, dropping his hand to pet at Greg's hair. He disposed of the luggage trolley by the elevators; Greg hadn't stirred, but his head moved, uncomfortably, when Wilson came back into the room.

"You're going to be here till Sunday," Wilson promised. "Cuddy told me I could have you till then." Foreman was heading the diagnosis of the new patient. Wilson was pretty sure Greg couldn't know that the Diagnostics department had a patient, and he didn't plan to tell him till Sunday. "I'm going to have someone from the hotel sit with you in case you need anything while I'm at work tomorrow."

He sat down next to Greg, and stripped the scrubs off him. He ran his hand over Greg's thin buttocks, petting him. "I've got a surprise for you," he said tenderly. "Morphine."

Greg's head jerked round, uncomfortably, rattling the leash. He stared at Wilson with an awkwardly crooked neck.

Wilson got up and unclipped the leash from Greg's collar. He left the cuff on. He still wanted Greg immobilised on his bed. The phials were in the hotel safe: three doses. "Tonight, tomorrow night, and Saturday night, you get morphine," Wilson said.

"If I'm good," Greg muttered.

"No," Wilson said, comfortably. He took out tonight's dose. "You're getting this because you're in so much pain, and I want to take care of you. You have to trust me, Greg." He petted Greg's buttocks again, and slid the needle into the gluteus muscle. "I want you to be in less pain."

He had a sharps container in the bathroom, and disposed of the needle there. He washed his hands thoroughly. He had brought some dressings for Greg's back, and now he could take leisure to enjoy this: Greg's breathing was evening out, and his muscles were more relaxed. The fifty strokes had bruised the skin deeply wherever they landed, and wherever they had crossed, there was a scab. Sometimes there was a line of broken skin that had scabbed. Wilson ran his finger lightly along one line of scabs, feeling the scarred skin on Greg's back. Layers and layers of pain. People had hurt Greg. Wilson's breathing quickened. He had decided not to fuck Greg tonight, maybe Friday or even Saturday. He ran his left hand gently over Greg's back, feeling the scabbed and painful texture, careful not to hurt.

"You'll get into trouble if Cuddy tests me," Greg said sleepily. "For the morphine."

"I'll take the risk," Wilson said lazily.

"This can't be much fun for you," Greg said, even more sleepily. "You want me to be in pain."

"Oh no," Wilson said insincerely. "Not fun at all." He went on petting Greg's back, thinking the slave had never been so relaxed around him. Greg felt like he was going sleep soon. Wilson had planned to dress his wounds once he was asleep, and he wanted to jerk off as badly as he had when Greg's whipping was fresh in his memory.

"Please," Greg said. He sounded very far away. "Please." He jerked his arm, a bit awkwardly. "Please..." His breathing changed. He was asleep.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

"She died," Cameron said.

"Her heart stopped. For thirty seconds." Foreman knew he sounded brutal. He was terrified. He had stood there at the white board, tasked with overseeing House's practice, and he had actually told them to think of the craziest thing possible, because that's what House would do.

"She's deteriorating," Chase said.

"Her father admitted to sex with her once," Cameron said. "And she confirmed it. I've reported this to Child Protective Services."

"So it might still just be PTSD," Chase said, taking this with what seemed to Foreman remarkable calm.

"Did you know already?" Foreman asked.

Chase shrugged. "If I had, I would have been legally obligated to report it to CPS, and then they'd have sent someone to arrest the dad, and then we wouldn't have had him around to ask questions about the girl's medical history, which is pretty essential since she herself can't remember what she had for lunch."

Foreman looked back at the list of symptoms. "It's got to be cancer," he said finally. "We have to find the tumor."

"We could spend days searching for a tumor that might not even be there," Cameron protested. "If it's PTSD because her father's having sex with her, she needs help."

"It's Friday," Foreman said. "You're not going to find a psychiatric specialist in PTSD who's going to take on a new patient on Friday afternoon. We'll spend the weekend looking for the tumor."

Chase made a show of glancing at his watch. "When?"

"When Wilson leaves for the weekend," Foreman said, keeping his temper.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Saturday morning was the first time Greg woke up almost normally: he didn't whimper himself awake, he just stirred and shuddered and tried to turn and was brought up short by the cuff Wilson still had locked around his wrist.

Wilson had been lounging on the futon (it was less uncomfortable than it looked), drinking coffee, watching the morning news, and thinking about ordering breakfast. Greg's back looked a whole lot better, from a medical point of view: his bruises were blossoming into the old faded colors, the scabs were drying out. Wilson had kept him on his belly for most of the past two days, only allowing him up to go to the bathroom or to sit up and eat. He hadn't fucked him, though he'd thought about it a lot, and he hadn't had a great deal to jerk off to: Greg had spent a lot of the time in fitful sleep. Wilson had given him a second shot on Friday night.

"Feeling better?" Wilson asked. He finished his coffee and stood up. He petted Greg's hair, not expecting an answer, but enjoying the freedom to run his fingers over Greg's head and down in neck.

"Please," Greg said. He turned his head under Wilson's hand. He swallowed.

"What do you want?"

Greg tugged, again, at the cuff. He licked his lips. "Can I get this off?"

Wilson hesitated. He'd promised Cuddy he'd keep Greg secure. And he _liked_ watching him struggle not to struggle with the cuffs. But he was sure he was right: gentle handling was what Greg needed. "Okay," he said at last, and undid the cuff around Greg's wrist, instead of at the connector on the bed.

Wilson helped him walk through to the bathroom. He made Greg stand in the tub and rinsed him down with warm water from the showerhead, careful to keep his back dry. Greg was swaying: Wilson helped him out and walked him back to the bed. He sat Greg down on the bed and propped him up with pillows. Greg's eyes followed him, bright and intent.

"Are you going to eat breakfast? French toast?" Wilson suggested, thumbing the side of Greg's jaw. Without access to the groomer, Greg's face was scruffily unshaven. It was a good look on him, Wilson decided. Greg's mouth fell open a little under his hand: he looked up at Wilson with wide blue eyes.

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

Greg shook his head, almost imperceptibly, not in denial but in confusion. "When..." He shuddered, speechlessly. "When do I..."

"Cuddy agreed to defer the rest of your whipping," Wilson said. "Keep yourself out of trouble. You'll go back to work on Monday."

Greg went on staring up at him. After they'd had a light breakfast, Wilson thought he would put Greg belly-down on the bed again, hips propped up on a couple of pillows, and finger-fuck him. He wanted to find out if he could make Greg squeal and come. Wilson smiled.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

_Where could she have cancer?_ Cameron and Chase had both declared their work week done by Saturday evening, when their patient had been woken from coma, and was still deteriorating mentally and physically: Foreman was left conducting tests with increasing desperation for ever less probable cancers. By Sunday afternoon she was he had checked her out for virtually every possible cancer a human being her age could have - and for some that it wasn't likely she would get for thirty years. If she lived that long.

Finally, and furiously remembering the times Greg had jeered at doctors who did whole-body scans, Foreman took advantage of an empty hour on Sunday evening, and set up the MRI to look at her whole body, head downwards. There were plastic binders used to immobilise uncooperative slaves, and they worked to hold most of her body still while she twitched. She still had short-term memory problems - Foreman figured that so long as he could keep her quiet for the time it took to do the MRI, it didn't matter what she thought of being bound down like a chattel - she wouldn't remember it. And he felt he literally could not bear it if one more time Greg walked into Diagnostics, looked at the whiteboard, listened to Foreman summarising his days of painstaking work, and came out with the right answer.

He was halfway down her body, recording each slice, repeatedly having to explain to her where she was and why she was immobilised, wishing Chase and Cameron were here to help, when he saw something that changed everything.

She had _testicular_ cancer.

What they'd thought were her undersized ovaries and had ultrasounded for ovarian cancer, were undescended testicles. She was intersex.

Foreman had forgotten to keep reassuring her. She screamed loudly enough to be heard outside the MRI room, and Foreman had some trouble explaining why he'd immobilised a free woman with slave manacles, especially as he couldn't stop grinning. He had solved the case, on his own, without Doctor House.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

By Sunday morning, Greg's back was mostly healed up - still painful, from the way he turned and moved, but Wilson was pleased with how he had recovered. This time when Greg woke up, Wilson let him go to the bathroom by himself, though he insisted on cleansing him with the showerhead. He enjoyed that: all of this time with Greg, hurt and helpless, had been intensely erotic for Wilson. Better than watching him get whipped on top of a recent whipping. Greg would have needed to be hospitalised for several days after that, and Wilson wouldn't have been able to enjoy him at all.

"We'll have breakfast," Wilson ruled, "and you can have ibuprofen."

"No morphine?" Greg asked, with a lopsided grin.

Wilson paused. "I only brought three doses," he said after a moment.

"Of what?" Greg asked.

Wilson glanced at the safe. He had used each dose and disposed of the phial and the needle carefully. "Morphine, 10 milligrams," he said.

"That was what was on the phial you showed me," Greg agreed. "That's why it worked. Saline? Or did you use LAS?" Injectible aspirin - a painkiller that hadn't occurred to Wilson, but it wasn't a bad idea. He was surprised, though, to see Greg's eyes fixed on his, as if Greg was really desperate to believe there had been some real painkiller behind the injections.

"How did you know it wasn't morphine?"

"I know the feel of it," Greg said. "I knew when I - when you gave it to me, it wasn't morphine."

"No, you didn't," Wilson said. "You didn't know last night, you went out too smoothly for that."

"But it wasn't morphine," Greg repeated, looking half afraid, half proud.

"No. It was a placebo. You got saline." Wilson studied Greg's face: there was a moment, before the wall came down, when Greg was plainly aghast. "And it worked, didn't it?" Wilson said softly. "I took your pain away."

Greg gave him a closed-off look, lifting his chin. "And you like my pain so much," he said.

"I told you," Wilson said. "I'm going to care for you and control you. You're _mine_." He picked up the phone, and ordered breakfast.

Wilson had meant to fuck Greg, after they'd eaten and Greg had his ibuprofen, but while Wilson was still finishing his coffee, Greg opened his pants and went down on him with the familiar skill and eagerness he'd shown before.

After Wilson came, he tugged Greg up and put his arms round him. The scabs on his back felt rough against Wilson's chest. His hair smelled of sweat. Wilson fondled him, and drifted off, his right hand finding the pitted surface of Greg's scar. "I want to see you play," he told Greg, smiling to himself. He could feel Greg tense and shiver, but he went on soothing him with a gentle hand. "I hear you from the balcony sometimes," when he went out there to listen: but he hadn't yet seen Greg holding the guitar Wilson had given him. "You sound great...

**_*tbc*_**


	14. Sex Kills

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Current plans include 3rd season and maybe 4th season, so it's just going to get more interesting...  
_

**2.14 Sex Kills**

Cuddy crooked a finger, and pointed at the floor in front of her desk. Wilson had sat down in the visitor's chair by the desk: Greg's eyes followed the tip of her finger and he knelt. Wilson took his cane and sat back, looking mildly interested.

"Take your shirt off, Greg," Cuddy told him.

Greg looked well, though he had been beaten six days ago. He had been walking quite easily, he had knelt in good form, he didn't appear to have lost any weight. The clinic would open its doors in ten minutes, and Greg could evidently do a full shift. He took his shirt off promptly: the cloth wasn't sticking to his back, and his chest looked a good color.

Cuddy gestured with her hand at the couch. "Position yourself over there."

She saw Greg hesitate. She hadn't told him to get up. After that moment's hesitation - that in a different mood might have become outright rebellion - he crawled on hands and knees to the couch, and reached up to put his hands on the back, stretching himself out, belly supported against the couch.

Cuddy nodded. "Stay just there, Greg," she said, and turned to Wilson. He had a faintly smug expression.

"I shall have his blood and urine tested," she said.

WIlson didn't lose his smug expression. Cuddy noted that mentally.

"He hasn't done clinic duty now in six full days: he's about 26 hours behind. I think I'll round that up to 30, and of course the clinic is due 28 hours this week." It was the week before Christmas: there were a lot of doctors taking time off. "Let's call that 60 hours. He'll begin in a few minutes and work from 8am until the clinic closes every day. We ordinarily close the clinic on the 25th and the ER department have the use of him. Do you wish to take him for a day or two over that period?"

"Yes," Wilson said. "The 24th and 25th." His smug look did not change.

"Then that will be 68 hours," Cuddy said, smoothly. She glanced over at Greg again. He was holding himself stil, but his arms were quivering with the strain. "In fact, it had better be 72 hours. I'll instruct Doctor Foreman that except for real emergencies in Diagnostics, Greg will be working in the clinic for twelve hours each day until the 24th. I'm afraid I have to deny you access to him for that time."

Wilson nodded. He didn't look as smug, Cuddy was pleased to see.

Cuddy stood up. She nodded to Wilson, who got to his feet and followed her across the room. Greg was almost shaking now: his arms were taking a lot of the strain of supporting his weight. His bad leg was quivering.

Cuddy ran her hand down his back. The scabs felt dry: she got the edge of her nail under one of them and flicked it off. Greg made a noise. The small wound bled a little, not much. Wilson coughed: Cuddy glanced at him. Wilson coughed again, looked down, and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

"Nicely healed," Cuddy said approvingly. "The balance of the sentence will still have to be carried out at some point. Next time Greg does something that deserves a beating. Of course if you manage to keep Greg from misbehaving for long enough, I may forget that he's due another fifty lashes."

The tiny line of blood from the scab was drying. Cuddy looked at Wilson with interest: he was looking down at Greg with an odd mixture of possessiveness, compassion, and outright lust.

"If you'd go now, please," she said to Wilson: "I have another appointment in a few minutes."

"I'll take Greg to the clinic," Wilson said.

"No, just leave him here," Cuddy said, and went back to her desk. Wilson stood over Greg, and looked at her: she sat down behind her desk and picked up the little spray of hand-cleanser: she had a tiny blotch of Greg's blood on one finger. "If there was something else you needed to talk to me about, perhaps you could make another appointment with my assistant?" she said, with polite dismissal.

"No," Wilson said, after a long moment. The door clicked shut behind him.

Almost immediately - Cuddy had asked him to come to her office for 8am - the door opened again, and Foreman walked in. He didn't see Greg at first: he was halfway across the room before he registered a half-naked slave was stretched out over Cuddy's couch, and Cuddy was fairly sure that he did not realize who that was until she said "We have a few things to talk about, and then I want you to deliver Greg to the clinic, Doctor Foreman."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Foreman would have liked to clip a leash to Greg's collar and make him crawl. He would have liked to thrash that insolent look off his face. He had no authority to do either of those things, and Greg knew it.

The month during which Foreman was to supervise House's practice would expire before Christmas. Greg would be working in the clinic full-time until Christmas Eve.

The things Cuddy had said about his tenure in Diagnostics still made Foreman's ears burn. He shouldn't have been reviewed like that in front of Greg. Not in front of anyone, but especially not a slave.

Cuddy made a point of saying that Foreman's supervision had been something of a failure: he hadn't succeeded in preventing Greg from doing anything insane, and left to himself, working on a case with the other diagnostics fellows, he had triggered a complaint against _himself_.

Foreman delivered him to the clinic's front desk, and told Nurse Previn that Greg would be working there full time up until Christmas Eve.

"Not _on_ the 24th?" Previn said, looking annoyed. "That's a busy day for us."

"Ask Doctor Wilson," Foreman suggested, gently malicious, and turned away. The month during which he was supposed to be supervising Greg's practice would expire tomorrow: the glow he'd got from solving the case of the intersex supermodel was fading. But at least, he thought, he could hope to have the makings of a good paper: he should publish something by the end of the first year of his fellowship.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

On Greg's second full day in the clinic, Wilson got there at two - he'd learned by experience that the staff generally preferred not to let Greg take a lunch break until after the midday rush - and told Nurse Previn that he was taking Greg for half an hour to make sure he ate something.

"I guess," Previn said, glancing at the clock. "Bring him back in 30 minutes, no later, OK?"

Wilson was feeling cheerful enough that he ignored her grumpy tone. He walked Greg out of the clinic, hand on his arm, into a unused consultation room, and locked the door.

Greg tensed up the moment he heard the lock click home: Wilson could literally see it happen.

"Calm down," Wilson told him. "Sit down. Lunch, remember?" He waited for Greg to sit down in the patient's chair and set a brown bag lunch in his lap: sandwich, piece of fruit, and a bag of chips. He sat down in the consultant's chair.

"Aren't you eating?"

Wilson stole a handful of chips to nibble on. "I already did."

"Oh, when the real people get their lunch." But Greg was already biting into his sandwich. He ate fast: he was through with his lunch and glancing at the clock well before Wilson had to take him back. With a little flourish, Wilson produced the other item: a box of chocolates from the hospital gift shop. "Here. You can take these into the clinic, if you're careful with them."

Greg looked at the box of chocolates as if they constituted a trap. "And these are..."

"Chocolates," Wilson said. "You like chocolate."

"Norwegian chocolate. Frankly, you buy that stuff the terrorists win."

Wilson grinned.

Greg looked up at him, and he wasn't smiling at all. "Gifts express guilt. The more expensive the expression, the deeper the guilt. That's a twelve-dollar box, so I guess you don't feel that badly about whatever it is you think you've done. But I'd kind of like to know what it is you _think_ you've done."

Wilson was more amused than irritated. "Some people bottle up their feelings, have them come out as physical pain. Healthy human beings express feelings such as affection by giving gifts." He stood up and quite deliberately ruffled Greg's hair and then petted it smooth again. "Let's get you back to the clinic. Enjoy the chocolates. I'll bring you lunch when I can."

"So this is about your _affections_," Greg said, very quietly, as he followed Wilson out of the consultancy room. Wilson gave him a sharp look, but they were crossing a crowded foyer and there was no time to respond.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Whenever Doctor Cuddy assigned House full-time clinic duty, his fellows were left doing admin work, following up e-mails, and looking for cases. Since the IT staff had come and removed House's computer from his office, they had also been dealing with all of his consults.

"How long are we going to have to do this?" Chase asked.

"Till Cuddy decides to let it go," Foreman said.

Cameron was silent. She'd done her two hours clinic duty for the week the first day, and whatever she'd seen, it hadn't cheered her up.

"This guy is stupid," Chase said. He read out an e-mail from a hospital in Nevada, who didn't seem to recognise advanced syphilis.

Cameron looked up. "Doctor House usually doesn't answer those. The ones he doesn't bother to answer for a week, I do."

"Great, you answer this," Chase said.

"It doesn't take much," Cameron said. "Just tell him in your view it's probably syphilis and you don't think Doctor House will be interested."

Foreman finished the last of the e-mails he had assigned himself, and stood up. Today, without any particular ceremony or announcement, he had ceased to be responsible for supervising Doctor House's practice: he was just another of the Diagnostics fellows. He wondered if anyone but himself had noticed.

He had been responsible for a month for supervising the practice of a man who was a much better doctor than he was. Supervising an insolent slave who couldn't even be whipped into obedience. And what he'd got out of it had been a scolding from his boss ... and the satisfaction of solving a case. Just once.

He went downstairs and signed himself in for two hours of clinic duty. Greg was in exam room one. One of the last patients Foreman saw was an elderly white man who'd come in with his young daughter - he was in his sixties, she was in her early twenties, mom didn't seem to be in the picture at all. At first seeming simple, when Foreman ran the first tests, he realised that the concatenation of symptoms was a genuine stripy zebra.

Foreman waited for the patient Greg was seeing to leave - he knew how long Cameron would take to get downstairs, though Chase might take a bit longer - before he nodded to Nurse Previn and walked into exam room one.

"Got a patient." Foreman handed House the sheaf of MRI images to hold while he switched on the light box along the wall.

"Congratulations," House said. "I got a waiting room full of them." He sat down on a stool beside the shelf, leaned on his cane, and looked at Foreman as if he were expecting something more.

Foreman took the images back and started putting them up on the light box. The door opened and Cameron and Chase came in. "His right testicle is almost twice as big as his left," Foreman told them.

"Cool," House said.

"It's probably testicular cancer," Chase said.

"No. That's impossible." House hadn't moved from the stool, nor - Foreman could have sworn - looked at the MRI images, but he sounded quite certain.

"The symptoms all indicate - " Cameron started. Foreman folded his arms and looked at both of them.

"The shoes aren't right," House interrupted. Chase and Cameron both looked confused. "Here's how testicular cancer would manifest itself," House told them. "First the patient would get the exact symptoms that he's got, then Foreman would examine him, then he'd suspect testicular cancer on account of the symptoms being so perfect, then he'd stick a needle in it, then he'd call a surgeon. And while that guy operates, the rest of you would be out bowling. And since you're not wearing bowling shoes, the disease obviously did not progress in that fashion."

Foreman nodded. He tried not to display impatience. He didn't want to give House the satisfaction. "LP showed some white cells, but his MRI is clean."

"Sure, if you call a micro-abscess in his brain 'clean'." House pointed. Foreman took a step to look more closely at the image House was indicating - he'd seen a shadow in one of the temporal lobes at one point in the MRI - but suddenly House was on his feet, with his hand over that part of the image. "What, you don't trust me?"

Foreman had known Greg wasn't going to be grateful, or appreciative. He'd have settled for just _less annoying_. "Are you talking about the left temporal lobe?"

"Neat!" House grinned at him, showing most of his teeth. "You can see through my hand!"

"It's just a shadow."

"Or it's an infection," House said, far too cheerfully. "When guys have brain-crotch problems, it's usually the result of using one too much and the other too little."

Foreman had the feeling that Chase's mind had also gone directly to Wilson. Cameron's eyes, wide and serious, remained focused on Doctor House: it was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

Foreman said, crisply, "Blood and urine were negative for syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia." He had of course _thought_ of infections, and _tested_ for infections, and a normal person would have asked instead of pointing at a shadow -

"So treat him for all three," House said, just as crisply. He stood up, apparently dismissing them. "Stat."

"Umm..." Cameron sounded awkward. "Negative means he doesn't have it."

"No, negative means he probably doesn't have it, which means he probably has cancer." House jerked his head at the door. "Stat's the word you doctors use for _right away_, isn't it?"

"I thought we were wearing the wrong shoes for cancer." Cameron sounded as if she were taking the stupid entirely too seriously.

"You're wearing the wrong shoes for _testicular_ cancer. They're perfect for lymphoma." House actually looked down at the three fellows' feet, as if he were really checking out their shoes. "Except Chase's, they're just goofy."

Foreman managed to keep his eyes on House, but he saw Chase glance down as if trying to work out what was goofy about his shoes.

"Lymphoma could cause infiltrates in his reproductive organs and his brain. If it does advance he's dead no matter what we do." House made a sweeping gesture at the door. "So give him the STD meds, and hope the tests were wrong."

Foreman found himself walking out the door. Outside in the clinic, Nurse Previn called to one of the waiting patients, "Exam room one!" and a coughing, red-eyed young woman got up and headed towards them. All three of them headed for the door into the main part of the hospital.

"Well," Chase said. "So we've got a Diagnostics patient?"

"Looks that way," Foreman said.

Cameron gave him a large-eyed look. "That was a really nice thing for you to do," she said.

Foreman agreed with her. He gestured impatiently at the elevator. "Let's go," he suggested. _Before someone reports us to Cuddy - though what can she do, we haven't been told Diagnostics is closed down - or word gets back to Wilson._

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Henry had been forty-two when he married Cecile, and forty-four when Amy was born, and as he'd freely admit, right up until he and Cecile got divorced, those two women were the loves of his life. After the divorce he couldn't say that any more because Amy got mad about how Cecile had hurt him, and he was still hoping that Amy would start talking to Cecile again. A girl needed her mom.

He couldn't tell Amy he didn't want her around. But he could send her off for lunch as soon as decently possible, because it was just possible ... Cecile really didn't have the best sense when it came to men...

The doctor who appeared in response to the page wasn't Doctor Foreman, but an older white man, wearing a drab rolltop under his white coat. He looked tired, but he glanced Henry over with a gleam in his eyes and introduced himself as "Hi, I'm Doctor House. I hear you'd rather die than admit you had sex."

"I'm sorry," Henry apologized. Doctor House was frank, at least, and that was certainly a refreshing approach from the careful line Doctor Foreman took, never quite admitting that he was sure Henry _had_ had an affair since the divorce. "I... couldn't tell my daughter," he admitted.

"Right, because she's what? Twenty-two?"

"I slept with her mom," Henry admitted.

Doctor House looked as if he wanted to laugh out loud. "She probably knows that's happened already. Roll over."

Henry guessed the doctor had a right to think it was funny. He began trying to shift from his back to his front. He was surprised the doctor wasn't offering to help, until he saw that he was leaning on a cane. He explained, "My wife had an affair, I forgave her. She had another affair and I forgave her again and... Amy thinks I was an idiot."

"So smart," Doctor House said. He still sounded like he was trying not to laugh. "You must be very proud. Roll over."

"I assume that you've been in love," Henry pointed out. Yeah, he'd been an idiot, but Cecile... He managed to get on to his stomach, and the doctor leaned over him.

"Is that the one that makes your pants feel funny?" Doctor House asked dryly. "I'm starting you on a cocktail of STD meds."

"Amy is just getting over it," Henry said. He didn't know why he was telling the doctor, except there was no one else he could tell, and it wasn't as if the doctor was going to tell anyone, right? "She barely spoke to her mom for months and if she thought that it was happening again and that's why I got sick..." The needle jabbing into his butt felt huge. "We... we just happened to be at the same Italian cheese-tasting thing." Which he had gone along to because he had known Cecile had renewed her membership in their old block's Food Club and they would have have got tickets. Cecile liked weird stinky cheeses. She would be there. He'd known. She'd known he'd known.

"Cheese is the devil's plaything," the doctor intoned: it sounded like he knew, too.

"It was just the one night," Henry protested.

"Well," the doctor said, "you're obviously completely over her."

"Amy thinks love leads you to make stupid choices."

The doctor finished his injection. "You're certainly setting a good example for her," he said.

"She just doesn't get it. If you're not prepared to look stupid then nothing great is ever going to happen, right?"

The door opened, and someone else came in: medical staff, since the doctor said only, neutrally, "Nearly finished here." The doctor flipped the gown back down and the covers up. Henry finished silently, _On the other hand, I guess your testicles aren't gonna explode either._

When the door opened again, Amy's footsteps were recognizable. She said, sounding worried, "Dad? Is everything OK?"

The new doctor was no one Henry had seen before: he was a quiet young-looking fellow.

"I'm Doctor House," the doctor introduced himself, "this is Doctor Wilson, he's the head of oncology."

"Cancer?" Amy went white.

"No, I'm - " The new doctor was actually stammering, "I wanted Doctor House for a consult - Your dad doesn't have cancer."

What the hell there was to be embarrassed about wanting a consult, Henry didn't know, but Amy was still looking shaky. Henry felt like he could deal. He had a tickle in the back of his throat, he felt like a coughing spell was coming on, but Amy could get him a drink of water. The new doctor was saying reassuring things to Amy, heading towards the door: Doctor House gave a shrug and followed him out, turning to glance back at Henry with a half grin.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Doctor Wilson had found out Diagnostics had a patient. Greg really shouldn't have tried to treat him: his absence from the clinic could be covered for five minutes, but not for half an hour, and anyway Wilson had come to feed him cookies or something medical. They could have conferences in Exam Room One: right after Wilson had collected Greg to redeliver him to the clinic, the patient had spewed liquid from his lungs.

"It was flash pulmonary edema," Chase told House. "We took a litre of fluid off but the problem wasn't with his lungs. It's his heart. There are vegetations obstructing his mitral valve."

"It's not an STD," Foreman pointed out. "And lymphoma wouldn't erupt that suddenly." He'd wanted House to have a patient, but he didn't in the least mind pointing out that both of House's theories so far had been wrong.

"So what is it?" House was staring at a list of symptoms on an improvised whiteboard. "A disease that attacks his brain, heart and testicles. I think Byron wrote about that."

"Could be psittacosis," Cameron suggested.

"Chlamydia cultures would have come back positive," Chase contradicted.

"Strep viridans can hit the heart," Foreman said thoughtfully.

"Wouldn't mess with the reproductive system," Cameron retorted. "Maybe things aren't so nicely connected. He's sixty-five. We could be looking at multiple systems just starting to break down independently."

House got up from the stool and walked across to the notebook pages with the symptoms. "Way to a man's heart is through his stomach." He circled the words "Acid Reflux" with Cameron's pen.

"He's had acid reflux for years," Chase said, "It can't be relevant."

House tossed the pen back to Cameron. "Seems there are other ways to kill people besides having sex with them. He's got brucellosis."

"Where the hell did you pull that idea from?" Foreman said.

House grinned, showing most of his teeth. "He went to an Italian cheese tasting party, and if they served unpasteurised sheep's cheese from the Alps, it would be covered with brucellosis bacteria. While most people have enough acid in their guts to kill off an army of evil bacteria, he's been munching antacids for years. Go ask him if he ate runny, bitter cheese with a boring woman. Then start him on rifampin and doxycycline."

"You were talking to a patient about his social life?" Chase sounded disbelieving.

House sat down on the stool and looked up at the three of them. "Technically, he was talking to me about his social life. Real chatty. I was just there to taunt him about his sex life. Paid off, though. Run along. Go make him well. Have a happy, happy Christmas. And send in my next patient."

Foreman was the last to leave. He glanced back at House, caught him staring at the paper notes they'd stuck up along the wall. He looked grim. He hadn't thanked Foreman for the case.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

At 8am on December 24th, Wilson found all three fellows in the Diagnostics conference room: none of them even looked in his direction, they were talking to Greg. Greg looked exhausted.

" - sinus rhythm," Chase said. "Has a lot of damage though."

"It was brucellosis," Cameron said, "but we got to it too late. Vegetation broke off into his main coronary artery and caused an infarction."

"His heart muscle's half-dead. He'll be lucky to last a week," Foreman said,

"So he needs a transplant," Greg said. He looked over their heads at Wilson. "Take it to the transplant committee. My ride's here."

All three of them turned back and looked at Wilson: all three of them with sudden, wide-eyed, visible dislike, even from Foreman.

"Whose patient is he?" Wilson inquired.

"Technically, mine," Foreman said. "But he was admitted by the Diagnostics department, and the department head of Diagnostics should present his case to the transplant committee."

"If the transplant committee want to take evidence from Greg, they'll doubtless make their wishes clear," Wilson said. "Meantime..." He nodded to Greg. "Let's go." He glanced round at the three fellows. Foreman's face had gone impassive: Chase looked blank: Cameron still had a look of wide-eyed dislike, but Wilson had known she was jealous.

Greg limped down the hall at Wilson's side. Wilson was smiling to himself. He had two days of Greg all to himself, and then after that long stint in the clinic, Greg had cleared his backlog of hours due: he would only be putting in four hours a day.

"We're going to be staying at the hotel for a few more days," Wilson said cheerfully.

"_We_ are?" Greg asked. Wilson locked his car doors. He turned to Greg with a grin.

"My lawyer got me a last minute court date. My wife's lawyer accepted. My _ex_-wife. I'm divorced. I can look for an apartment. We won't be at that hotel for much longer."

Greg stared, wide-eyed. He jerked his head round to look out of the car window, away from Wilson, at the snow-logged streets and the store windows with the tinsel decoration. They were almost at the hotel when Wilson realised Greg was looking at him again.

"Foreman got me a patient," Greg said.

"What?"

"Foreman found me a patient," Greg repeated. "His idea of a Christmas present. He hates me."

"I'm sure - " Wilson began, meaning to say that he was sure Foreman didn't hate Greg, but Greg ignored him. Wilson was maneuvering into the car park .

"Foreman's hated me pretty much since he realized he was going to be taking orders from a slave if he wanted to learn anything. He bought a riding-crop to keep me in line. He wouldn't buy me a coffee, let alone a tasty nutritious lunch. He hates me, but he thinks of me as a doctor. A better one than he is." Greg wasn't looking at Wilson now. He swallowed, and his voice was very small and flat. "If you want to celebrate getting your divorce, if you want to hurt me, can't you ... can't you just do that, and let me..." His voice was cracked and broken now, his head was twitching. "Let me go back to the hospital, take this tag off..." His hand was jerking upwards, each time halted, as if Greg was fighting the impulse to touch the tag himself.

Wilson parked the car and took hold of Greg's forearm firmly with his left hand. "Greg," he said. "Calm down."

Greg looked at him. "You know I'm better at being a doctor than I am at doing this," he said finally, his voice dry and grey. "You _know_ it."

"I like you just the way you are," Wilson said, and lifted his left hand to run his finger along the flesh just above Greg's collar. Greg flinched back. "I want to take care of you."

**_*TBC*_**

_Well, I guess you know what distracted me from posting at the weekend... but I meant this to be a Christmas story. Even had in mind a Christmas party for Wilson to take Greg to, but it just didn't work out. Happy Christmas anyway even if it's a few days late!_


	15. Clueless

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

_The delay in posting was partly RL stuff - had an accident, nothing serious, but it slowed me down for a while the last two or three days! - and partly that Tailkinker and I are working on the story of Greg's first 16 days at PPTH. If you don't know what that means, read "Seven Stages" - theirs and mine!  
_

**2.15 Clueless**

The first lady to buy Gabrielle had also been named Gabrielle: she had ruled that the new slave should be called Lady. (Gabrielle had found out, nearly a year later, that "Lady" had been the name of a dog they'd owned, who had died a few months before they bought Gabrielle.) When they sold her they told the buyers she was "Lady": no one free had ever asked her if she had another name.

Julie Ross had bought her four years ago when she'd just got married. Gabrielle had figured out nearly two years ago that the marriage was in trouble, well before her owner's husband found out: she'd worried for a while that Julie would sell her after the husband moved out, but nothing was said, there was no evaluation, no threat of sale. Not until the court bailiffs arrived at the house in the middle of the day, just when she was vacuuming the sitting-room, before she'd got around to the laundry, and they put her in shackles and dragged her out of the house because her legs suddenly wouldn't work, and shoved her in a cage in the back of their car.

She kept thinking - all the long drive - that Missus Ross was going to be so mad, coming home to find the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the sitting room and the laundry not done. Her mind kept going back to that, because otherwise she had to think she was in a cage and she had shackles on her wrists and ankles and if she was still wearing clothing it was because the bailiffs hadn't yet stripped her, her clothes belonged to Missus Ross and she obviously didn't any more.

They took her out of the car at the city courthouse and she waited in a holding cage just big enough for her to crouch in, for hours. And then the bailiffs came again and took her to a different holding cage, this one set up for a longer term stay: she could lie down or sit up, and they took her clothes away. It was like being back in Processing except there was no measurement and no exercise: she just got taken out to be cleaned and to use the squat toilet. She was there for four days, she worked out afterward, because it was December 23 when the bailiffs came and December 27 when they took her out of the cage and gave her the clothes they'd taken away and delivered her, leashed but not shackled, to Missus Ross's husband.

Doctor Wilson was doing paperwork: he glanced her over without interest but with recognition, and confirmed her as his ex-wife's slave. So she belonged to him, now. The forms were notarized: the clerk handed him a familiar folder, for transfer of documents, and he'd never been interested in a slave kneeling and bowing, he'd never been strict with her, but Gabrielle went to her knees just the same and waited formally, hands behind her back, for him to tell her to get up.

She'd never been in the car with him. (It was morning outside: cold. Gabrielle wanted to shiver, wanted to wrap her arms round herself: but she kept herself in proper form and kept a helpful smile on her face.) He opened the passenger door and gestured: so he meant her to ride in there.

He was looking at apartments. Gabrielle stayed in the car for three of them: with the fourth he got her to check the closet space in the kitchen and a couple of other crawl-through spaces, and from his conversation with the realtor, this was the one he'd decided to take.

Then he drove back to his hotel and had a conversation with the desk clerk and she spent the rest of the day in a cage in the hotel basement, but they didn't strip her and she got to eat a bowl of the same food the hotel slaves were eating, and the next morning the supervisor who took her out of the cage let her use the bathroom before taking her out to the foyer where Doctor Wilson was waiting. He had another man with him, dressed and collared like a slave, but it took Gabrielle a minute to be sure he _was_ a slave: he didn't stand like one or move like one.

The man went in the passenger seat. Doctor Wilson gestured to Gabrielle to squeeze in the back: there was a lot of luggage in there. She supposed they would go to the apartment Doctor Wilson had looked at yesterday, but they drove to the hospital where she knew he worked, and to her surprise, Doctor Wilson opened the passenger door and the other slave got out but Doctor Wilson didn't.

He had bought the apartment.

She spent several hours in the back of the car outside the realtor's office. When he came back out he was holding two sets of keys and he drove to the apartment. On the way he stopped in at a diner and came out with a bag of food. It smelt so good her mouth watered.

At the apartment, he handed her one set of keys and put a carton from the bag on the kitchen counter.

"I'm going to get the utilities switched on today, and have my stuff delivered from storage," he told her. This was the first time he'd spoken to her beyond telling her to get into or out of the car, and she hung on his words. "There's also some furniture and some groceries arriving this afternoon: get them unpacked as you can and put things away, clean up, that kind of thing. I'll order some food for tonight. You can eat that," he pointed at the carton. "I'll be back about six with Greg."

Greg must be the slave he'd delivered to the hospital this morning. Gabrielle nodded. "Yes sir, thank you sir." She went down on her knees. "I'll work hard, sir." Doctor Wilson had never hit her, had never shown any sexual interest in her, he had never been cruel or unfair or even particularly unkind: she had had far worse owners and could expect worse, and now he owned her. She had to convince him she was useful. She did not want to be sold.

"Okay," Doctor Wilson said. "I've got to get back to the hospital. Just get up and," he sort of waved his hand, "get on with your work."

The food in the cartoon was chicken with gravy and biscuits. There was no cutlery in the apartment, nothing at all to eat with. She ate it carefully with her fingers and was washing her hands under the cold water, and drinking the water from her cupped hands, when the first delivery arrived.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cameron had found a patient for Diagnostics, she was pretty sure: a kind of post-Christmas present for Doctor House, after the bad time he'd had before Christmas and time he'd spent off with Doctor Wilson.

She no longer thought Wilson liked House.

The coffeemaker in the Diagnostics conference room belonged to the hospital, and the supplies of coffee and creamer were renewed monthly. All three fellows brought in food, and even Foreman just ignored it when House helped himself rather than go down to the slave canteen for his meals. Chase brought in sugar, though he didn't take it in his coffee: Cameron brought cans of diet coke and teabags. House occasionally drank tea, if Cameron made it for him: she'd never seen him help himself to her diet Cokes. Until this morning.

Greg walked into the conference room: Cameron had expected that, after four days with Wilson, but she produced the patient folder and started telling him about the couple, until Doctor House sort of reappeared: he walked over to the fridge, pulled out one of her cans, and still listening to her account of what had happened - she could tell by the way his head was moving as she spoke - he picked up what looked like a pair of osteo scissors and began trying to shove them through the bottom of the can with one hand, still holding the can upright. "Awesome, a sex fiend with a swollen tongue." He was propped against the fridge by his good leg. It was a strangely pointless balancing act. "Just think of all the places I can make Foreman search."

"He's not a sex fiend; he's a happily married man," Cameron corrected him.

"No such thing." The thing House was using went through the bottom of the can, and held the hole over his mouth as it spurted, swallowing fast.

"What are you doing?" Cameron asked, diverted.

The can emptied, House dropped it into the waste. "Testing a new caffeine delivery system. I didn't get enough sleep this morning." House stared at her, as if daring her to comment. "Wilson has unusually loud toenails."

Cameron looked down at the patient's file.

Foreman said, very impassively, "If they're into rape fantasies, S&M is on the menu as well. Neck trauma could cause vocal chord paroxysms, which could cause choking."

"I didn't see any sign of trauma," Cameron said, looking up again, "And they were remarkably open. I asked about STDs and they admitted participating in a threesome a few months ago."

"They re as miserable as the next couple," House dismissed her.

"Another guy or girl?" Chase asked.

"Girl," Cameron said. "His wife's college roommate."

Chase half-grinned, shaking his head. "If he's not happily married, I don't know who could be."

"You're looking for something," House said, almost as impersonally as Foreman. "If you're happy, you've got nothing to look for."

It had actually struck Cameron as very sweet, in an unexpected kind of way. "His wife arranged it for an anniversary present. If you ask me, if two people really trust each other, a threesome once every seven years might actually help a marriage."

She suddenly became aware that all three men were staring at her. She looked back at them, refusing to blush or duck her head. They were a happily married couple: childhood sweethearts, together since junior high.

"Okay," House said, "I say we stop the DDX and discuss that comment."

"They're happily married," Cameron said.

"Betcha anything he's not," House said.

"You haven't got anything to bet," Foreman said, without any emphasis, but as sharply as a knife. "Could be neurological. Progressive bulbar paralysis would explain the symptoms."

"No, ALS would affect his facial muscles before his throat," Cameron retorted, looking daggers at him.

"Maybe the first doctor was right. Food allergy explains the anaphylaxis," Chase suggested. He was watching House, not Foreman or Cameron: House had gone to the whiteboard at last, and was writing on it, meaning he had definitely accepted the case.

"What if the problem's not in his throat?" House asked.

"That would be a little odd considering that's where all his symptoms are," Cameron pointed out.

"Says who?"

"The patient."

"Since most patients can't tell their ulna from their anus, I m guessing this guy also doesn't know the difference between choking and suffocating. His throat might be fine, his lungs might be messed up. Get more blood, a chest CT and a body plethysmograph. Unless, of course, you think we should be asking the patient where his anus is, first." He stood by the whiteboard, tapping the marker against it, waiting for them to leave.

Chase and Foreman glanced at each other, and left: Cameron stood by the conference table, waiting for the door to stop swinging behind them.

"I'll take that bet," she said, meeting House's eyes.

"As Doctor Foreman pointed out: I don't have anything to bet with."

"A hundred bucks against an evening of your time," Cameron said, her heart suddenly hammering.

"My time isn't my own," House said. The tag was hanging silver against his t-shirt. Cameron had never been close enough to read it, but she could guess what it said. After a moment, she turned and left.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson was quite impressed with the amount of work Lady had got through. The delivery firms had confirmed all his things had been delivered from storage and his luggage from the hotel, and the furniture and groceries had arrived, but the hall was clean and tidy, and smelled of food: Lady had evidently done some cooking. He unclipped the leash from Greg's collar and hung it up in the closet with his coat: he would have to buy a warm coat for Greg, now he had space to store clothes. Coats and overshoes from storage were in the closet, and summer shoes at the back.

"We should go shopping on Saturday after you finish clinic duty," he told Greg. "Let's see if the beds are set up."

Greg was standing still by the door. "You bought another slave."

"I didn't buy her," Wilson denied. He'd planned on getting an agency in to clean the flat, and he'd thought he would enjoy doing the cooking himself. He'd never liked Lady's cooking. "Turns out our maid was community property, even though my ex-wife bought her, and either one of us had to buy half of her off the other, or we had to sell her. My wife wanted to sell her. Apparently she s getting rid of anything that reminds her of me."

"You were doing your wife's slave?"

"I was nice to her, which annoyed my _ex_-wife, God knows why."

"Maybe she was doing her," Greg said. He still hadn't moved.

Wilson glanced round: Lady must be _somewhere_. Wilson couldn't ever remember having wondered where Lady was before: she'd simply been around when wanted and inaudible and all but invisible when not. He realized with irritation that a large part of his discomfort was because of Greg: he was aware of Greg as an individual, as a person, even though he was a slave, but Greg was different.

"No one was _doing_ her, all right?" Wilson snapped quietly. "Come on. She didn't deserve to get sold at auction. She'll clean the apartment, God knows you can't, she can cook, she can do laundry - "

"Maybe I should just go back to the hospital, and the two of you could - "

"Shut up," Wilson said. "When I find a good home for her, I'll pass her on. She's not a fixture. You are."

"That makes me feel so much better," Greg said. He seemed to gather himself together, and set off down the hall. Wilson caught up with him. The master bedroom had Wilson's old sandalwood clothes chest and the king-size bed he'd bought for his second wife. It was empty otherwise but for a neat stack of Wilson's suitcases against the wall by the bed, forming a kind of bedside table. Wilson opened the closet door and found his clothes hung there. He'd get another clothes chest for Greg.

Greg had already crossed the room and found the master bathroom, with the tub. It was long enough for Greg to lie full length in: Wilson's mind flicked ahead to running a full hot tub and making Greg soak in it, naked, the warmth easing the pain from his leg. He really wasn't a sadist, when the thought of easing Greg's pain gave him pleasure. There was space in the closet to hang Greg a suit of dress clothes - he'd look good in evening black, white tie even.

"Just checking the other fixtures," Greg said, pivoting back to look at Wilson. He glanced at the bed, and his face wrinkled up in a frown of surprise. "Good Lord, what is that smell?"

Wilson sniffed. "Stuffed pepper." It had been one of Julie's recipes.

"Stuffed with what? Vomit?"

"Cheese and vegetables," Wilson said. It wasn't exactly one of his favourite foods either, but evidently Lady had put it together to show willing. Hopefully she had made enough for himself and Greg: he must make it clear to her that he and Greg would be eating the same food. Though he'd better tell her to stay in the slave quarters - the apartment had one, a room with shower and toilet cubicle enclosed, he'd ordered flatpack bunks and lockers for it - because he wouldn't care for her to pass on to her next owner exactly what kind of intimacy he and Greg had. "Let's go eat."

Lady wasn't visible in the kitchen, because she was kneeling on the floor. The stuffed peppers were in a dish in the oven, a pot of beans and rice on the stovetop, a plate warming on the platerack, cutlery set out on the kitchen counter next to the tall stool. Wilson had inherited a sofa and a coffee table, both of which were set out in the living room, facing the TV stand, but he didn't have a dining-table and he hadn't thought to buy one.

"Get up," Wilson said. "Have you eaten yet?"

Lady got to her feet, head bowed slightly. Her hands went behind her back. "No, sir. There is chow in the slave room, sir."

"Well, fine," Wilson said, dismissing her. "Just go stay in your room, you don't need to do anything else till tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir." She disappeared. Wilson heard the slave door click closed, just at the edge of his hearing, and grinned at Greg, feeling much more relaxed. "Go sit down," he told Greg. Even if the food wasn't quite right, he'd enjoy feeding Greg in his own home.

There were two stuffed peppers in the oven, and Wilson found a second plate and another set of cutlery in a few minutes looking through the drawers. Even if he lost money when he sold Lady on - his lawyer had warned him he probably would, because it looked odd the husband taking the wife's maid even if she was legally community property - it had definitely been worth keeping her from the public auction. She'd made the move practically painless.

He handed Greg a plate with a stuffed pepper and a helping of rice and beans, and he sat looking at it for a minute with a closed-off expression on his face, until Wilson told him "Try it."

Greg tried a tiny bite off one end of the pepper."

Wilson nodded. "It's good, isn't it?"

Greg shrugged. He started spooning the rice-and-beans into his mouth, much faster, until he stopped abruptly and stared at Wilson. He was frowning. "How much beans and rice d'you think you'd have to eat from a ceramic pot painted with lead-based paint to get enough lead in your system to damage your lungs?"

"Are we talking a child or an adult?" Wilson asked.

"Adult."

"Then I'd say a lot. You'd have to eat beans every day for months." Wilson picked up the remote control from where Lady must have placed it, switched on the TV, and started flicking through channels: he'd subscribed to the basic cable package, but it wasn't on yet. His collection of old movies was shelved along the wall.

He heard Greg eating, then getting up: when Wilson looked round he was walking with the plates stacked messily on top of each other to the kitchen. He hadn't finished the stuffed pepper. He was walking awkwardly, but didn't appear likely to drop anything, so Wilson didn't say anything but "Lady will clean that in the morning." He turned back to choosing a movie, and when he looked round again, Greg was gone.

Wilson was startled, then annoyed, then worried, all in the span of moments: he put the DVD he'd chosen down on the coffee table, which surprised him afterwards, and went after him. Greg wasn't in the master bathroom throwing up, which would have worried but not altogether surprised Wilson, but he wasn't anywhere to be seen: until he came back into the hall. Greg was just at the living-room door.

"Where were you?" Wilson demanded.

"Thought of hiding in the hall closet," Greg said dryly. "Then I realized you'd find me."

Wilson stared at the hall closet.

Greg brushed past him into the living-room, and looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Relax. I had a bathroom break. Is that okay? Do you need me to ask permission? Sir?"

"I was in the bathroom," Wilson said, irritated. "You weren't there."

"I used the slave's bathroom," Greg said, with wide eyes. "I didn't know I had your permission to use your bathroom, sir."

"Stop calling me sir," Wilson said.

There was a pause. "Your other slave does," Greg said after a moment, flatly.

"Sit down," Wilson told him. He meant to go check - for what, he didn't know exactly - but Greg didn't move.

"I didn't pee in your closet," he said, sounding tired. "I didn't throw up on your shoes. You locked the front door, I can't get out, and it's not like I can _run_ away."

"All right," Wilson said finally. He took hold of Greg by the arm, and noticed a smear of the cheese sauce in stuffed pepper on his hand. "Oh for God's sake, do I have to tell a doctor to go wash his hands? Wash up." He jerked his hand at the kitchen sink and went to sit down, keeping an eye on Greg over his shoulder.

"Shall I make popcorn?" Greg asked.

"Just come and sit down here," Wilson told him. They'd watch a movie together, he'd hold Greg in his arms - Lady would stay in her room, he could forget about her - and then they'd go to bed. "You need to get your painkillers in about twenty minutes, bring a glass of water."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Foreman and House were arguing when Cameron came into the conference room. "The symptoms all point to heavy metal poisoning. Yeah, we all get it," Foreman said. "Unless you ve got proof and can tell me which heavy metal it is, I m starting treatment for lupus."

"Where's Mrs Nympho?" House said.

Cameron glanced at the door swinging behind Foreman.

"She's waiting outside, why?" Maria sat with Bob, or, when they were performing tests, she sat outside, waiting for them to let her come in again.

"Go search her," House said.

Her medical records? Cameron was confused. House snapped at her with the kind of impatience he showed when he was sure he had the diagnosis. He meant her to search Maria.

"You think she's poisoning him?" Cameron was outraged.

"His symptoms should be getting better the longer he's here," House said, "Instead they're getting worse."

"So either she's poisoning him, or it's _not heavy metals_," Cameron said. She'd done over ten heavy metal tox screens - even thinking Foreman's diagnosis of lupus was more likely, she'd gone _on_ testing for heavy metals until she'd gone through everything remotely possible, because House was sticking to his heavy-metal tox diagnosis.

"Because there's no reason to test for the other thirty," House said. "They don't get into the air or food, they only get in you if someone puts them in you. The only way we're going to find out what she's been sprinkling on his corn flakes is to _search her_."

"I am not going to accuse a woman of trying to murder her own husband simply based on some paranoid theory." The door opened behind her: she hoped for Foreman or Chase, but a glance told her it was Wilson, probably wanting to collect Greg for lunch.

"It's the only explanation." House was ignoring Wilson. "We've eliminated every other possibility."

"We have not eliminated every other possibility!" Foreman's lupus diagnosis was still not proved, but it was intrinsically more likely than a loving wife murdering her husband.

"Has he responded to the latest lupus treatment?"

"He's only been on it for a few hours."

"He hasn't responded because it's _not lupus!_" House sounded frustrated and angry, but Cameron could practically feel his gaze on her face: he was trying not to look at Wilson. "It's not allergies, ALS, arthritis or sarcoidosis. She's all that s left. _Do it!_"

Cameron was sorry, in a way, because House so much wanted her to agree: but she couldn't believe it and wasn't going to do that to Maria on House's say-so. House was pulling on his roll-top. Wilson put the bagged lunch down on the table.

"Are you going to see a patient?" he asked, with a slight edge of sarcasm.

"I'm going to see Doctor Cuddy," Cameron said suddenly. She didn't altogether like leaving House alone with Doctor Wilson, but there was nothing she could do about that: she could stop House from getting into worse trouble by getting Doctor Cuddy to stop him accusing a patient's wife of murder.

"Tattletale," she heard House say, just as the door closed behind her.

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson put the boxed lunch down on the table. Greg was standing very still, the roll-top covering his collar, eyeing Wilson.

"Let's see..." Wilson said, mildly amused by the situation. He wasn't going to let Greg go accuse a patient, or a patient's wife, so nothing was going to happen that Cuddy could use as an excuse to punish Greg, again. "I'm thinking Colonel Mustard, in the music room, with the candlestick."

Greg shook his head. "There's no music room, it's the conservatory."

Wilson shrugged. "Same thing."

"No, it isn't. If we don't find out what she's using, start treatment immediately, he'll be dead in a week."

"If you're right. If Foreman s right, you'd have basically raped an innocent woman."

Greg laughed. It was a sudden, very bitter sound. He headed for the door, and Wilson actually had to step in front of him and take his arms to stop him.

"Even if you're right, it's not your place to accuse a free woman of murder."

"If I'm right, it's just a misdemeanor," Greg said. "I'd get ten lashes, maybe even five. And I am right."

"Any whipping you get, Cuddy will add on fifty lashes," Wilson reminded him, holding more firmly. "You're not going out that door. Sit down, eat your lunch."

"I'm not hungry," Greg said. He leaned back, as if trying to break Wilson's grip, and Wilson nearly went over with him: he jerked back, and Greg lost his balance and went down on one knee, then the other, with an abrupt grunt of pain. He knelt there, still, and Wilson looked down at the pain visible on Greg's face with a familiar twist of desire.

"I'll give you a blowjob," Greg whispered. He wasn't smiling. "Your office, your apartment, wherever you like, just like this, you _like_ this - "

"Get up," Wilson said, alarmed at how this suggestion was taking him. He wanted Greg.

" - if _you_ ask to search her."

"What?"

"You won't get into trouble for it. Not like I will." Greg stayed down on his knees, his mouth twisting in pain. "You like this, right?"

"Up," Wilson told him tersely, and made Greg sit at the table. "What possible reason could I give Doctor Cuddy for thinking she wanted to poison her husband?"

"You're three times divorced," Greg said. He sounded calmer. "You're suspicious of all women." He actually grinned at Wilson as he said it.

Wilson considered it, and finally shrugged. "If she says no, she says no. And you are not coming further than the nurse's station and you're not saying anything."

It was unsurprisingly embarrassing, the little dialogue. "Hello. I'm Doctor Wilson. Mind if I take a look in your purse?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to need to search it and you for whatever you're using to poison your husband."

The woman stared at him in disbelief. "Why would I want to hurt my husband?"

"Then you won't mind if I search your things." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. Greg had outlined what he was looking for, and Wilson wasn't surprised not to find it. He glanced up as he finished and caught a look on her face.

"You satisfied?"

"Would you consent to a body search - " The woman's eyes widened in disbelief, wiping out the look that Wilson had momentarily seen. Or thought he had. "Of course," Wilson said hastily, "performed by a female doctor."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Cuddy had wondered sometimes if it would be worthwhile removing Doctor Cameron from Diagnostics, offering her a job at PPTH in another capacity, and inviting her to tag Greg. If Wilson's "gentle handling" didn't work, she might consider it again.

"Thanks for letting me know," Cuddy said, and picked up her phone to call security. "Bring Greg to my office, urgently." She glanced up, seeing Cameron about to leave. "No, stay. I need to get to the end of this."

Greg was looking well, at least: physically Wilson was taking good care of him. To Cuddy's surprise, Wilson had actually abetted Greg's diagnosis.

"There's at least a possibility he might be right," Wilson said. "The expression on her face when I finished searching her bag was... wrong."

"I can't justify calling the police because the head of the oncology department thinks a woman's expression is 'wrong'," Cuddy said.

She hadn't told Greg to kneel: he was standing by the door, leaning with both hands on his cane.

"Greg should do his clinic hours and stay out of the way," Cuddy said. "Doctor Wilson, would you take Greg to the clinic, and collect him from there when you leave work."

"We may not have finished doing the DDX," Cameron said, and at exactly the same moment, Greg said "The woman hasn't left the hospital since they arrived. Whatever she's using she's obviously hiding somewhere."

Cameron's voice raised. "She's not poisoning him!"

Greg looked at Cuddy. He lifted his chin. "It's the only explanation."

"No, it's the only explanation your twisted mind can come up with because you're angry that you can t find the answer and you re taking it out on her!" Cameron had turned her back on Cuddy and was talking to Greg direct: Cuddy glanced at Wilson, and saw him look blandly back at her. Wilson wasn't jealous of Cameron.

Greg's voice was still level: he was glancing past Cameron at Cuddy even while he spoke to her. "And you are protecting a complete stranger based on some childishly romantic notion that people are all so happily married they don t want to kill each other."

Cuddy glanced at Wilson again. His divorce had gone through days before Christmas. Wilson still looked blandly back at her.

"Are you calling me childish?" Cameron snapped. She sounded actually angry.

Greg grinned. "Grow up."

"Shut up," Cuddy said, and the grin wiped off Greg's face. Cuddy raised her voice a little, as Cameron turned. "_Both_ of you. And stay away from his wife. Both of you. Doctor Wilson, take Greg to the clinic and warn Nurse Previn Greg is not allowed to leave, on any pretext, until you collect him."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

The phone rang in Diagnostics, and Chase answered it. "Aren't you in the clinic?"

"Yes," House said. "I was just treating a patient who has herpes. She got it from her husband. I've got her wedding ring."

"If you're planning to steal a patient's wedding ring, I'd just as soon not know anything about it," Chase said.

"I'll give the ring back to Previn as soon as she notices my last patient stormed out in a huff. Shut up. I don't have long. Mrs Nympho has arthritis, doesn't she?"

"Family history, yes," Chase agreed.

"Gold sodium thiomalate. It's an arthritis remedy. It's rarely used here in the US, but it's still popular in Mexico. Run a tox screen for gold."

"Cameron - "

"Tell Cameron to splash Mrs Nympho's fingers with stannous chloride."

"What?"

"If it's her that's sprinkling gold on his food, her fingers will turn purple. Tell Foreman to stop the lupus treatment."

Then House dropped the phone. In the clatter as he or someone else was putting it back up, Chase heard someone - probably Brenda Previn - scolding Greg, but he also heard Doctor House say, quite clearly, apparently to himself, "I was right."

_*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*_

Wilson picked Greg up from the clinic at six, and they drove home. "Hear you got someone arrested today," he said.

"Me?" Greg turned to look at Wilson, his lips parting in a shit-eating grin. "I could have been whipped for that. I'm just a slave."

"It just happened that Chase thought of running a tox screen for gold, Cameron thought of splashing his wife's hands with some kind of chemical that detects gold, and Foreman thought of calling the police actually _before_ Cameron splashed her hands?"

"Must have done," Greg said. He looked away. He seemed desperately uncomfortable.

"There's no proof," Wilson said. "And she was a killer. Cuddy may know it was you, but she's not going to whip you for being right."

Greg shrugged. "I know." He still looked uncomfortable, and Wilson realised why: it made him grin. He let Greg out of the car and they got the elevator up to the apartment. Wilson had meant to keep Greg in suspense - it was pleasurable watching his uneasy shift from foot to foot - but by the fourth floor he'd had enough.

"I'm not going to make you follow through on that," he told Greg reassuringly.

"On what?" Greg widened his eyes. "Oh. You don't want a blowjob, sir?"

The elevator door opened: two of Wilson's new neighbors were waiting outside. He hoped they hadn't heard. Inside the apartment, Lady was invisible again: baked potatoes in oven, steaks marinating in fridge, salad and dressing just waiting to get married, if she'd followed Wilson's instructions, and he was sure she had. He'd start looking round for a new owner for her in the new year: she made good coffee, but he found it really very awkward, Lady making breakfast for both of them in her plain clothes and collar, Greg sitting a bit hunched on the sofa, his own collar visible. Better to just have agency hires come in to clean, and besides then that room could be identified to any visitors as "Greg's room": Wilson realized that he'd be embarrassed to admit, not of course that he regularly had sex with Greg - that was implicit in the tag - but that he routinely slept with Greg. He liked going to sleep holding Greg, he liked stroking the great scar, he liked feeling the whip marks on Greg's back - and he did not want to discuss any of that with anyone else.

When he sat down with Greg and two plates of steak, potato, and salad, Greg put some breadcrumbs on his plate.

"What's that?"

Greg looked at him, picked up a large crumb, and held it out to him. "You want to try it?"

"Poison?" Wilson asked, straightfaced. Greg ate the crumb, and offered Wilson another piece.

Wilson sniffed it: it wasn't breadcrumb, but some kind of dry stuff, that smelled of nothing. He tasted it: there was no discernable flavor, though when he bit into it, there was a crunchy texture. "What is it?"

"It's got all the necessary food values, added vitamins and fiber," Greg said. "There's several brand names, but at PPTH they just call it slave chow. Other places too."

"Well?"

"The ex-Mrs Wilson kept a bag of it in case she didn't have enough food in the house some day for the slave as well as you two." Greg shook his head. "Very provident. Very sensible. You know it's actually against the law to starve your slave? Keep a bag of this in the house, you can always feed them a bowl of this."

Wilson took another piece: it was still just as tasteless. "Well, I'm not going to make you eat this," he said. "Don't worry about it."

"It's all you've given Gabrielle to eat since the day before yesterday."

Wilson stared at Greg. He had a temper, he knew it, and he knew he shouldn't exercise it on Greg. "You call her 'Gabrielle'?" he said, with a very tight control on his voice.

Greg lifted his chin. "That's her name."

"Are you having sex with my slave without my permission?"

"No," Greg said. His hand went up to his tag. He flinched as Wilson stood up. "No, she hasn't done _anything_ except work for you and eat the food I gave her."

"You gave her food?" Wilson was so taken aback he sat down again, and saw Greg relax slightly. "You gave her _food?_ Why?"

"You had leftovers!" Greg swallowed. "I gave her leftovers. I told her I had your permission. She wasn't surprised. She told me you're a k-kind owner." Greg's voice stumbled over the word.

Wilson stared. He was definitely getting rid of Lady, and the sooner the better: he didn't _like_ the idea at all, of Lady and Greg talking to each other behind his back. But he had to admit, Greg hadn't actually done anything wrong: he had assumed Lady was eating what was left over from their own meals. He hadn't thought about giving her specific permission.

"Okay." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, that's fine, you can - I'll tell her to just help herself in future. I'll find someone who wants a maid and sell her on pretty soon, she's not going to be around long."

Greg looked away. He fished in the pocket of his jeans, and brought out a folded wad of cash. "You could free her," he said to his plate.

"What?" Wilson picked up the cash: a hundred dollars, in twenties. "What the hell is this?"

"She's been a slave for seventeen years," Greg said. "I don't know what she was sold for, the first time, but in seventeen years she has to have earned it back. You could free her, and you don't need the money, you just want rid of her. Give her permission to leave the state, and she'll go."

"Why would she want to be free?" Wilson said, bemused. "I'll make sure she goes to a good home. What would she do if she was free?"

Greg lifted his head and looked at Wilson. "When she was enslaved, her husband took the kids and ran, back to Mexico. Her youngest was two then, her oldest was nine. She thinks she knows where they would have gone."

"She'd go to Mexico? How would she get there, without being enslaved for debt again?"

"You could buy her a bus ticket," Greg said, quite gravely.

Wilson laughed. He picked up the money and shook it at Greg. "Where did you get this?"

"Cameron made a bet with me. I couldn't have paid off my side, but she paid up when she lost." Greg's hand was on his leg, rubbing the scar.

"It's not even legal for you to hold cash in this kind of amount," Wilson said, faintly surprised at Cameron.

"You don't need the money," Greg repeated. "You could give it to Gabrielle."

"When I free her," Wilson said, still amused. He tapped the money against the table. "This isn't some kind of joke? She does actually want to be free?"

"Yes," Greg said, on a thin outward breath.

Wilson thought about it. He _didn't_ need the money - Lady's value had been just enough that the divorce process couldn't disregard her, not enough that Wilson really cared about losing it - and it could actually be less trouble to have a manumission document drawn up than to look around for a decent buyer for her. He'd need to check what her initial sale price had been, but Greg was right: technically, once a slave had earned the equivalent of the price that had repaid their initial debt, it was lawful to free them. Lady's debt, divided by seventeen years of the cost of employing a maid, probably had been repaid by this time.

"If it's legal, then I'll free her," Wilson said. He tucked the cash into his wallet, a separate wad from his own billfold. "I'll even give her this money." He grinned, still amused. "And I'll grant her permission to go live in Mexico, _if_ that's what she wants." She'd need Wilson's consent to change where she lived, for the next five years, and he'd be just as pleased if she did leave New Jersey: for one thing, if he got to tell Julie about what had happened to her former maid, his ex-wife would not be at all pleased. "Now eat your dinner."

***tbc***

But fair warning - while I have every intention of continuing Collar Redux well into Season Four (seriously!) and definitely will be finishing Season Two, there may be quite a delay before I post **"Safe"**, next "story episode". RL stuff, plus what writing time I have being eaten up by "16 Days"... **Sorry!  
**


	16. Safe

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

_I apologize for the long gap between episodes! Tailkinker and I were working on a looooooong story together - and we'll start posting it soon. But I wanted to get back to CollarRedux Season 2. Thanks for your patience!_

**2.16 Safe**

Wilson was eating breakfast, wishing Lady elsewhere, when the phone rang. The caller id was the hospital switchboard: Cuddy's PA said "Good morning, Doctor Wilson," and then put Wilson on hold for thirty seconds of annoying music until Cuddy picked up the phone and said "You took Greg home with you last night."

Greg shuffled in. He didn't look at Lady. Wilson knew that he and Lady must talk, but he'd never seen Greg look or speak at the slave.

"Yes," Wilson said, to Cuddy.

Greg sat down. Lady served him a cup of coffee and put down a plate of food in front of him: Wilson saw (as Cuddy was telling him about an immuno-compromised girl with multiple allergies who'd gone into anaphylactic shock in a clean room) that just as Greg didn't look at Lady, Lady didn't really look at Greg even when she was providing him with coffee and breakfast.

"That's interesting," Wilson said.

Cuddy snorted. "Never mind trying to sound interested, Wilson, I just need you to deliver Greg to Diagnostics instead of the clinic this morning. Mrs Bardach wants to know what happened to her daughter. Don't take Greg out of the hospital again until this case is over."

"All right," Wilson agreed. He would get Lady out of his apartment within the next day or two, depending how fast his lawyer could make it happen. "Does Greg have to make up the clinic hours later?"

"That's up to Nurse Previn," Cuddy said crisply. "She's entitled to Greg's time."

Wilson put down the phone and looked at Greg, who was watching him intently. He had barely touched his food. Wilson nodded to him. "Eat up, and you can have your oxycontin."

"Diagnostics case?" Greg asked, blurred by a mouthful of toast and bacon. He swallowed it down with a gulp of coffee, and asked again "Diagnostics case?"

"You're not doing your clinic hours this morning," Wilson said.

"Did Cuddy tell you anything about it?" Greg asked.

"How did you know that was Cuddy?"

"You wouldn't have asked anyone else if I had to make up my clinic hours after the case," Greg said, annoyingly and correctly. "What did she tell you?"

Wilson hesitated, but it seemed petty: he told Greg what Cuddy had told him.

"What are you doing?" Greg asked, finishing the last of his food. "You knew I was interested, you could have got me to go down on you in exchange for that information." He held out his hand to Wilson for the oxycontin tablets. His eyes were steady, unembarrassed.

Wilson stood up, annoyed. "Finish your coffee, get the cane and the leash. You can have your oxycontin in the car." He saw Greg's hand shake and turn over, palm down, and looked up at Lady, standing in the kitchen area, watching them both. He really wanted to get her out of here.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Wilson delivered Greg to the conference room where the three Diagnostics fellows and Cuddy were already waiting for him, and went back to his own office. He had given Greg the oxycontin in the car: it had probably kicked in by the time he had parked and Greg had to get out.

His lawyer rang mid-morning, knowing from the divorce that Wilson took a break in appointments at this time. "I can draw up a statement of manumission, of course," he said - he sounded dubious about it. "Who bought the slave?"

"Does it matter?"

"Certainly. It isn't lawful to buy a slave in order to free them, and anyone who releases a slave so soon after acquiring her certainly appears to be an abolitionist. Who exactly bought her?"

"I did," Wilson said, truthfully. Julie had said she wanted a maid, and Wilson had surprised her with Lady at the end of their honeymoon. He explained this to the lawyer. Lady simply didn't fit in with his present needs - he intended to have an agency come in to clean, he didn't need to have a resident maid for that.

"All right," the lawyer said dubiously. "And you wanted the manumission to include permission to travel out of state to Arizona?"

"Apparently she wants to go back to her family," Wilson said. "They're in Mexico, but I assume she plans to - "

The lawyer cut over him. "It would be completely illegal for her to leave the country without permission, _as I'm sure you realise_, so I can't think what you were about to say."

Wilson sighed. "Okay. Thanks." He thought about it. "_Could_ I give her permission to leave the country?"

"If you want to take the risk," the lawyer said, sounding even more dubious. "For seven years after you free her, you're obliged to be able to produce her on request by a court order or a federal law officer. That's why most manumission statements include a location requirement."

"Is that likely?" Wilson was startled.

"I'm looking at her labor history," the lawyer said. "She was processed in the Arizona state slave administration center, sold the first time in Colorado, she had three owners before you, all of them employed her as a domestic..." He sighed. "I can say it doesn't look likely that anyone would want you to produce her, but I have to warn you that it would be wiser to require her to be resident in the tristate area for the next seven years, not allow her to leave the country."

Wilson glanced across the room at the balcony window. He might go out soon, buy a couple of coffees and a pastry, provide Greg with a mid-morning treat. He enjoyed treating Greg. He'd be happy to know that Lady was quite thoroughly out of the picture.

"I think I'll take the risk," Wilson said casually. "I plan to give her a bus ticket to the border, and some cash - what would be about the right amount?"

"You want to make sure she's got enough cash that she doesn't need to steal anything between here and the border," the lawyer said. "You would be in trouble too if she did anything like that. And you don't want her to come straying back across the border looking for work. I can set up an account for her in Banxico, that should help. Buy her a bus ticket to Mexico City and have your assistant buy her a change of clothing, something that hides her throat, I hear it can be quite conspicuous for several days after a slave's uncollared, even if you don't insist on the ear-ring."

"Fine," Wilson said. He'd send his PA out to buy a cheap suitcase, a couple of women's outfits that didn't look like slave wear, and whatever oddments a woman might need for a few days. "Where do I get her collar taken off? I'd like this to happen as a priority."

"Simplest procedure is to have her taken to the slave administration center," the lawyer said. "They can uncollar easily. There's a fee." He named the price, not excessive. "And if you have them uncollar her, there's no appearance of wrong-doing, as there might be if you freed her and sent her out of the country less openly. If that's what you want, I can probably send you the manumission statement before the end of day: if you fax it back to me with your signature - you'll need a witness - your slave can be collected, uncollared and manumitted within twenty-four hours, unless you change your mind."

"Great," Wilson said, one eye on the clock. "Thanks very much for your help."

His lawyer sighed. "Thank me again when you get my bill. My best advice is to take a few days to think it over - especially your plan to let her leave the country."

"Could my ex ask to have her 'produced'?" Wilson asked.

"Not without a legal claim," the lawyer said. "She would have to show some kind of due cause. Something the slave had done or failed to do that she was entitled to a remedy for. If that didn't come up when you were separating community property during the divorce, it's not likely to happen now."

Wilson disconnected, and dialed for his PA. Lady's presence was stifling. He wanted the freedom to do what he liked with Greg.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

The manumission document arrived by e-mail before five: Wilson skim-read through it, finding it said pretty much what his lawyer had advised. His lawyer had added in the body of the e-mail, a cut-and-paste from the divorce settlement, the value of the "household domestic" that Wilson had agreed to when they settled the community property, and a link to an auction site.

Wilson glanced again at the paragraph which granted the freed slave permission to cross the border into Mexico. He hadn't talked to Lady about it: he supposed he should, he wouldn't put it past Greg to make the whole story up.

In the Diagnostics box, Greg was sitting at the end of the table, Chase and Cameron facing each other across it, and Foreman was standing at the whiteboard. Wilson raised his eyebrows.

"Can we help you, Doctor Wilson?" Greg asked. He sounded cheerfully sarcastic.

Foreman looked at Wilson impassively, and away again. "We have to give the patient a CT scan," he declared. "Followed by blood work to rule out infection, and then a heart surgical biopsy to rule out rejection."

Greg stood up. "Well, that sounds like a plan. Let's get started."

"Cameron and I will do the CT scan," Foreman said.

"I'll handle the mom," Chase said.

"Doctor Cameron," Wilson said, coming to a decision "If you don't mind, I need a quick word with you in my office."

All three of the fellows gave him an odd look, but Cameron said correctly "Of course, Doctor Wilson."

"I'll be in my office," Greg said. He got up and backed away: Wilson watched him go, briefly, and turned his attention back to Cameron. He liked seeing Greg walk: but he'd have plenty of uninterrupted time for that later on.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Cameron was startled to be handed a legal-sized document. Doctor Wilson said "I need a witness to sign this. I'd like you to treat it as confidential."

The document was a statement of manumission. Cameron looked through it with a sudden complex burst of feeling, until she came to the line identifying the slave to be freed as a female domestic worker known as Lady, and then she closed her mouth firmly and looked at Wilson. "This is for your ... housekeeper?"

"Yes," Wilson agreed.

Cameron looked down at the page again. Of course Wilson wouldn't be able to free Greg. Even if he wanted to.

"If you're willing to witness it, sign here and here - " Wilson pointed.

"Okay," Cameron said at last. She took the pen Wilson was holding to her, and signed her name, then printed her full name and address. "Why is this confidential?"

Wilson smiled, looking charmingly embarrassed. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, as a matter of fact, I don't want my ex-wife to know. This is her slave, really - I got her in the community property split."

"I don't even know your wife," Cameron pointed out. She'd seen her on Wilson's arm at big hospital fundraisers, but she was pretty sure she'd never spoken to her. She looked back at Wilson assessingly. "You don't want _Greg_ to know," she said suddenly, sure she was right: and from the way his eyes flinched a little, she realised she was. "Why don't you want him to know? He's pretty sure to notice."

Wilson stopped looking so boyishly embarrassed. He looked right at her and froze her out. "Doctor Cameron, it's not well thought of - as my lawyer pointed out - to acquire a slave for the purpose of freeing them. I don't want this to be common knowledge around the hospital, because I don't want to get the reputation of being an abolitionist."

Cameron looked him over. She still wasn't sure why he was lying. Chase might have an idea; he seemed to understand Wilson better than either herself or Foreman. "All right," she agreed, and handed him the pen back. "He won't hear about it from me."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

"What's the good news, what's the bad news?" House was at the whiteboard.

"Rising paralysis," Chase said. Added to anaphylaxis and congestive heart failure.

"Is which?" House asked.

Chase looked up from his notes. "Good news," he said. House looked almost frenetically cheerful. In the mornings, direct from Wilson's access, he appeared subdued and tired: in the evenings, before Wilson came to collect him (always with that damn leash) he was usually restless but silent. It was nearly six, but if House looked almost ebullient.

"Why?" House asked, swinging round briefly to eye him in a way that made Chase wonder if House knew exactly what had been going through his head.

"I don't know, it just sounded like you."

"New puzzle piece, always good news. What's the bad news?"

Foreman said flatly, unamused, "It's ascending fast; she can hardly extend her leg now."

"At this rate it'll be up to her lungs in a matter of days," Cameron agreed.

"So..." House said, tapping the marker against the whiteboard, "anaphylaxis, heart failure and paralysis. We couldn't put the first two together; I'm guessing we can't put all three together."

Cameron said suddenly "Tick paralysis? Could also explain the anaphylaxis, maybe even the - "

Foreman interrupted her. "Penicillin allergy explains the allergic reaction much better."

Besides, they'd looked over every inch of the girl's body searching for an insect bite that might explain the anaphylaxis. A tick might have dropped off, but then the mark would be visible and the paralysis wouldn't be happening. Chase pointed this out, getting a nod from Foreman.

"Can we put any two of those together?" House asked.

The door opened and Doctor Wilson came in. The leash was swinging from his hand. He stopped, evidently not intending to interrupt the differential: House stood still by the whiteboard, frozen. Cameron was looking down at her notes, not meeting anyone's eyes. Foreman looked over at Wilson, his face expressionless, and then back at House.

"How about we stipulate?" Foreman said at last. His voice was deeply sarcastic, phrasing like a lecturer. "You argue that there must be something to connect all three symptoms, you mocked us for not figuring it out and finally you let us discuss the paralysis on its own because it's what's going to kill her. Now it's ascending, MRI's are clean so rule out stroke or aneurysm."

Cameron looked up. "ALS? MS?"

"Progression's too quick," Foreman said, still watching House, who was still looking at Wilson, speechless.

Chase was impressed. Foreman was managing to act as if House was still running the DDX, even though Foreman seemed to have taken over his lines. He said, without thinking about it too hard, "Spinal lesion from leukaemia?

"Too slow," Foreman corrected. "It's most likely Guillain-Barre."

"She's immuno-suppressed," Chase corrected him. "What about botulism?"

Foreman managed to even sound amused. "Not unless she's been walking around on her hands the last couple of days. Botulism paralysis is descending, not ascending."

"Could be a virus," Cameron suggested. She had been looking back and forth between House and Wilson, but now she seemed to realize what Foreman was doing and said "West Nile, even Polio with her immune system shot."

There was a moment's silence. Chase tried to think of something else. Wilson was standing quite still, but the chain on the leash was still shaking a little.

"Get an LP," House said suddenly. He was gripping the top of the whiteboard with his hand, but he was looking at them, not at Wilson. "And do PCRs for the viruses. And get an EMG to check for Guillain-Barre. Foreman's right, we've got to find out why she's paralysed."

There was a longer moment's silence. House said, irritably, "But not before staring at me dumbly for a few seconds."

All of them got up. Cameron turned to look at Wilson. "Did you want to talk to me again, Doctor Wilson?" Her voice held a surprising challenge.

"We'll report back as soon as we've got the tests done," Chase said, not to be outdone.

Foreman said "We'll need Doctor House here for the rest of the evening, Doctor Wilson. I'm going to let Nurse Previn know he won't be doing his clinic hours till we've got this solved."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Wilson stood and waited for the three fellows to leave. Greg was still standing by the whiteboard, but he took his hand off it and reached for the cane, leaning up against the table. It was not a hospital issue cane, Wilson registered: not medical metal and plastic. It was an antique, smooth-polished wood.

Greg leaned on the cane. Stacy must have bought it for him before she left. Wilson raised his eyebrows. "I guess that means you're in for the night."

"I guess it does," Greg agreed. "Going to bring me my supper?"

"No," Wilson said, only half-amused. "You can go eat whatever they're serving in the basement canteen." He walked over to Greg and took the cane away from him. "This is very handsome."

There had been a moment of clenching resistance when Wilson took the cane, but no real fight. Greg lifted his chin. Before he could speak, Wilson said "You might as well go now. They won't be done with their tests for a while."

"You want to see me lurching down the hall?" Greg asked. He took a step to the table, and leaned on it, making it look casual.

Wilson shook his head at him. "No, of course not. You can have this when you're at home with me. I'll take the guitar home too." He went into Greg's cubbyhole and looked round, finding the hospital-issue cane without difficulty, and handed it to Greg. "Go along," he told him easily. "You've got work to do."

Cuddy still hadn't relented on Greg's access to the Internet or to the hospital server, but Wilson thought she would soon. The Diagnostics department was still getting the consult requests, and they wouldn't be happy with a fellow responding on Doctor House's behalf forever.

Wilson picked up the case his PA had bought for Lady, and the guitar, and went home. He wasn't sure how you did this. It would be easier, really, to just fax the signed memo back to his lawyer, and let the bailiffs collect Lady and take her to the Center for uncollaring. But he felt responsible.

Wilson tried to explain to Lady what the plans for tomorrow were. She looked at him in what appeared to be blank incomprehension, mixed with fear, as he explained and tried to reassure her. Finally, wanting to stop this, he handed Lady a copy of the manumission papers. "You should read these - " He hesitated, but he knew Lady could read, it was one of her selling points " - and if it's not what you want, you need to let me know before I leave for work tomorrow. Understand?"

She was staring at the document. She was still on her knees, and Wilson glanced at the TV, wanting nothing more than to drop on to the sofa for an hour and watch something that asked no more of him. He'd eaten on his way home from the hospital, a restaurant where he couldn't have taken Greg - not upscale enough that patrons were expected to bring a slave, not downscale enough that they'd not object to a slave eating there. A nice comfortable family restaurant, where he'd met Julie, or Bonnie, for dinner after work: he hadn't eaten anywhere like that in months. "Help yourself to something to eat and go to your room," he told her. Greg usually fetched her a plate of food after they'd eaten. It was one of the many reasons why he was glad she'd be gone tomorrow - assuming that she didn't just let him know the last thing she wanted was to be set free. The blank expression on her face as she stared at the document didn't suggest enthusiasm. "Well," Wilson said, and shrugged, turning away.

"Doctor Wilson," Lady said. Her voice hit a note he'd never heard from her before. He glanced back at her. She was still on her knees, clutching the manumission document against her chest. "I want you to know - I will pray for you every day of my life. I promise. Every day of my life." She got up, awkwardly, looked as if she wanted to come to him - Wilson waved his hand at her, awkwardly, not sure what to do - and she stumbled backwards, out of the room, away from him. "Thank you," she said, before she closed the door behind her, not as silently as usual.

Left to himself, Wilson wandered over to the TV and switched it on, kicking his shoes off and lying down on the sofa. He reached for the remote. He wondered what Greg was doing right now.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Foreman had no idea how it had turned into his responsibility to make sure House wore his rolltop when he was seeing Diagnostic patients. House invariably remembered to take rolltop and labcoat when he was working in the clinic. He was allowed to wear them anywhere in the hospital, Foreman had discovered - anywhere he could be seen by patients - but he tended to walk out in jeans and t-shirt, looking like a cleaning slave, unless someone went after him.

Doctor Wilson had been warned he couldn't take Greg home from the hospital. He'd probably brought Greg a meal, which he'd sit and watch the slave eat. Wilson got some kind of pathological thrill out of that: he'd been doing it long before he tagged Greg.

When Foreman got back to the Diagnostics box, Greg wasn't there. Nor was Doctor Wilson, which was something. He added the results of the PCRs to the whiteboard, and saw Chase and Cameron in the hall, walking down it together and not looking at each other.

"Melinda's dying," Chase said when he came into the room.

"We're all dying," Foreman said. "How fast?"

"Too fast for Guillain-Barre," Cameron said.

"Cuddy wants to get her an MRI to rule out a spinal lesion."

"Cuddy? What's she doing on this?" Foreman asked. Granted the parents were big donors, it was damn unusual for the Dean to involve herself in any individual case.

"Greg tried to talk to her about what happened Friday night," Cameron said. "He's got a theory about botulism."

"What theory?" Foreman hadn't heard this yet.

"He wasn't wearing a rolltop," Chase said.

"_What?_" Foreman stared.

"So the parents suddenly lost confidence in us," Cameron said.

There were two security guards coming down the hall. Greg was between them: Foreman couldn't see yet if he'd been whipped, but then if he'd had a serious punishment, he wouldn't be back in the Diagnostics box so soon.

The guards dropped Greg on the floor just inside the Diagnostics box. "Orders from Doctor Cuddy - he's off the case and he's not to leave this room," the older said, to the three of them generally. The younger dropped his cane on the table.

"Are you going to be punished?" Chase asked.

"Why couldn't you tell one of us to ask her?" Cameron demanded.

"What's this theory about botulism?" Foreman said, crossly.

"Thank God one of you has his mind on the job," House said. He made no attempt to get up. "I got to talk to our little Jane about her back-door man. Turns out that Tarzan's sperm didn't have penicillin in it: he took clindamycin when he was cleaning himself up for that spontaneous act of love with his soul mate. Jane - "

"Melinda," Cameron corrected.

"Whatever - " Foreman said, irritated with everyone.

"Shut up," House said, without heat. "Our patient saw the bottle. Tarzan said he was on penicillin, but he got it wrong. So, as the antibiotics didn't cause the anaphylaxis..."

"It's still on the table," Foreman said. He turned and stared at the whiteboard again. The answer was there, had to be. House couldn't see it from the floor: Foreman walked round the conference table and reached down to pull him to his feet. House scooted backwards till his shoulders hit the door. "Everything's connected," he said.

Foreman crouched down. "What did we discuss? What was the differential?"

"Cameron said..." House frowned. "Cameron! When Tarzan climbed Jane's tree, could he have gone through any tall grass?"

"Yes," Cameron said.

Chase cleared his throat. "He must have done. He told us he climbed a fence to get in. The whole back yard is nothing but tall grass."

House grabbed Foreman. His hands were surprisingly strong, and his grip impersonal: he simply used him to stand up, grabbed for the stick on the table, and said "She has tick paralysis. Tarzan tracked a tick on to his jeans, which wouldn't be a problem but being a teenager, Tarzan couldn't keep his tick in his pants."

"We already checked her," Foreman said. He'd thought of tick paralysis, and Cameron had done a full body search for a tick. Every inch of her. "

"Now I'm checking her," House said. He opened the door and walked out. He still didn't have his rolltop or his labcoat. Cameron went after him. Chase and Foreman shared a look. Chase grabbed up the clothing, and Foreman shook his head.

House was by the elevators, Cameron looking as if she wanted to grab on to his arm. "Tick bites don't ordinarily cause anaphylactic shock," she was saying.

"This girl's allergies are not ordinary."

"Greg, get back there, you're not allowed to leave," Foreman said.

"Time course is perfect," House said. He was grinning, showing all of his teeth. The elevator arrived and House stepped in, followed by Chase and Cameron. Foreman pressed the elevator button, trying to keep the door open. House was still alking. "Bite itself sets off an allergic reaction, venom takes 4 days to kick in, heart's vulnerable, hits that first. Then a day later, sets off the ascending paralysis."

"Except that ticks aren't usually invisible," Cameron said.

"They are until you find them!" The elevator door closed on House grinning. Foreman hoped one or both of his colleagues had the sense to hit the emergency stop, and set off down the stairs at a run.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Wilson got a phone call on his way into work: Cuddy's PA. The Bardach case was resolved, and Doctor Cuddy wanted to see him in her office.

Foreman was there: and so was Greg. Foreman was seated and Greg was standing, leaning on his cane. Cuddy didn't look pleased. Nor did Foreman.

"All three of the Diagnostics fellows have been suspended from working in the Diagnostics department for three days, starting today," Cuddy said, without further greeting. "As Greg is still banned from access to the hospital mainframe or the Internet, he'll be working full time in the clinic for those three days. I would like you to deliver him to Nurse Previn at eight in the morning: you can make your own arrangements with her when to collect him in he evening."

"Okay," Wilson said. He sat down. "Good morning. How's the Bardach girl?"

"You wake up in the morning," Greg said, "your paint's peeling, your curtains are gone, and the water's boiling. Which problem do you deal with first?"

Wilson looked at him. He heard Cuddy take a breath of annoyance, and Greg snapped "None of them! The building's on fire! If we'd treated her symptoms, she'd have died, because we found the tick, she lives. That tick is an IV drip of poison, we unhooked it, she'll be fine."

"I found the tick," Foreman said.

"Doctor Foreman, you performed a vaginal examination on a minor child without her or her parents' consent and without a chaperone," Cuddy said. "Fortunately, you _did_ find a tick, and if Melinda does recover completely, there's every chance they won't sue you for malpractice."

"Tick paralysis was my idea," Greg said. "And I was right."

"Actually, it was Cameron's idea," Foreman said.

"That was when it was a dumb idea," Greg dismissed. "I was still right."

"Doctor Foreman," Cuddy said, "You are suspended for three days without pay while Mr and Mrs Bardach make up their minds about malpractice and sexual harassment. That starts now. I suggest you leave."

Foreman got up. He glanced at Greg, briefly, and then at Wilson. "Thank you, Doctor Cuddy," he said crisply. "Okay if I look in on my patient before I go? I'd like to see for myself that she's doing well."

"No," Cuddy said, as crisply. "But there's no objection to your calling in for regular reports."

"Thanks," Foreman said. He left.

"All my peeps suspended?" Greg said.

"You didn't know?" Wilson was startled.

"I didn't get to talk to them after we left the elevator. Glad to know Foreman wasn't wasting his time without me there to supervise, saving a life and all."

"Greg spent last night in a cage in the basement," Cuddy said. "Chase and Cameron are suspended from work in the Diagnostics department, but I've advised them that they may work in ER until the Diagnostics department is unsuspended. Doctor Wilson, last night Greg let his patient and her parents see him without a rolltop and a labcoat - "

"Can I help it if the food in the slave canteen made me think of botulism?" Greg asked.

" - and then, after I'd returned him to the Diagnostics department and forbidden him to leave, he left against orders." Cuddy went on, ignoring Greg. "He could get five lashes for each incident. But if I took notice of it, I would have to remember the fifty lashes he's still due. If I have him given sixty, we lose his work for as much as a week. I let you tag Greg because I thought you could improve his attitude and behavior. I want to see some improvement after three days, or I will have him whipped, and I'll keep the three Diagnostics fellows at work in the ER until Greg is recovered. You'll receive notice of a Board meeting to discuss how we should make use of Greg: if you decide to attend, Doctor Wilson, as you have tagged Greg you will not be allowed to speak or vote." She gathered some papers together, and tucked them into a file. "You can escort him to the clinic now. Greg."

Greg didn't say anything. He looked at her.

"Make sure you visit the groomer today. You look far too scruffy."

Wilson stood up. He took hold of Greg's arm and turned him towards the door. Once out of Cuddy's office, he said "Have you had anything to eat today? Did you get to shower?"

Greg didn't answer. He walked awkwardly, as if his muscles were stiff. _Had_ he spent a night in a cage? Naked? Wilson's grip tightened on his arm. "Tell me. I'm not taking you to the clinic until you let me know."

"What?" Greg still didn't look at Wilson. He pulled away from him. The clinic was just across the lobby, which was still mostly deserted at this time of day. Exasperated, Wilson grabbed Greg's cane, and Greg fell. He landed with a thump loud enough that Cuddy might have heard it, but her office door didn't open.

Greg had landed pretty neatly on his butt, half-curled to protect his bad thigh, and he stared up at Wilson.

"You're under my care and control," Wilson said. "Did you get to eat today?"

After a moment, Greg nodded.

"And did you get to shower, clean up, get fresh clothing?"

Greg nodded again. He was still staring at Wilson, with an odd, bewildered look. Wilson handed him his cane back. "Get up," he said. He offered his hand, but didn't try to pull: he didn't want to hurt Greg. Not right now.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Wilson collected Greg from the clinic and walked him to his car. "We have a stop to make before we go home," he told Greg. He had called his lawyer and confirmed that the Slave Administration bailiffs had collected Lady and the case of clothing and other items, uncollared her, and taken her to the bus station in time to catch her bus to Arizona. So today, Wilson could take Greg home to complete privacy.

The store wasn't far from the hospital. It was an unmarked storefront, just a name: you had to know what it was to go to the door. Wilson pressed the entrance bell, as instructed, and waited. After a minute, the door opened, and Wilson walked in with Greg at the end of his leash, to the most comfortable and sexually arousing room he'd ever been in in his life.

The floor was covered with a smooth, soft surface, not slippery. The walls seemed to be padded in different colors and substances. Against the wall padded with black silk, a whole kaleidoscope of whips and restraints glittered like a giant work of art. Wilson grinned, looking round, catching the store proprietor's eye - a tall man in a silky grey suit, who grinned back at him, seeming pleased by Wilson's pleasure.

There was a tug on the leash. Greg was jerking backwards. Wilson frowned at him. The proprietor was suddenly at his elbow, holding something in his hand. "Your slave seems to be nervous. Do you mind if I - "

"No," Wilson said, automatically, "not at all - "

But he was startled when the proprietor dropped something - a black cloth hood? - over Greg's head, and then fumbled with his hands at Greg's face. When he stepped back, Greg dropped to his knees. Wilson stared. Greg seemed to be wearing a black hood over his eyes, and the cloth covered his ears, too. He was kneeling with his hands in front of him, over his stomach, and his knees spread. He was breathing hard, but he didn't seem to be having a stress attack.

"Hi," the proprietor said. "I'm Lane." He held out his hand. "I guess this is a new slave?"

"Yes," Wilson said. He didn't intend to explain the details.

"Your slave seemed to be panicking. I used to work in a Slave Administration Center, in what we call processing, and one of the tricks there is to cut off a slave's sight and hearing. You'd be surprised how well it works to calm a nervous slave down. Okay. Let's talk about what you want to buy."

"Do you mind if I just look around?" Wilson asked. He was eager, excited - he would like to browse here with Greg, see how he reacted to the different items. He wanted to look at everything.

"Sure," Lane agreed. "Your slave won't move unless you tug on the leash, by the way. I sell these hoods over here - "

The wall padded in black leather was used to display outfits - mostly glossy, gauzy things, or complicated leather and metal harnesses that Wilson couldn't imagine using. But there were hoods like the one Lane had put on Greg, and Wilson picked it up, looked at the price tag, and frowned.

"Those are samples," Lane said. "To work right long-term, each hood needs to be custom-made for the slave. That's why I charge so much."

Wilson had wanted for some time to be able to _see_ Greg getting turned on by being fucked: the wall of red silk displayed an impressive array of dildos and buttplugs and gags, in different flesh tones, as well as in a rainbow of colors and glitter that Wilson admired without being attracted to. Some of them looked too big to use, and Wilson commented on that to Lane.

"All of them are within the maximum recommended safety limit," Lane told Wilson. "Of course that doesn't mean every slave could use them."

"Really?" Wilson was fascinated. He nodded to Greg. "What would you estimate for him?"

"Do you know if his previous owner kept him well-used?" Lane asked.

"I don't think so," Wilson said truthfully.

"How long has he been a slave?"

"Sixteen years."

"Well. I can tell you exactly if you don't mind my looking up his slave ID number. I pay for a copy of the Center database, but obviously it's never quite up-to-date. But if he was in a Center sixteen years ago, I should be able to look him up exactly."

"Look up what?" Wilson rubbed the back of his neck.

"In processing, we measure slaves on dildos and buttplugs and gags," Lane told Wilson. He grinned, seeing Wilson's reaction. "We check what's the largest we can get inside the slave. Now you might want to buy a couple of sizes smaller, too, not expect to get the biggest inside him right away. And of course take it slow, use plenty of lube - "

Wilson swallowed. "Yes," he said thickly. "Yes, sure, check it." It was only sensible. He wouldn't want to hurt Greg. Not like that. Lane went over to where Greg was kneeling and Wilson stared up at the wall. He was half-aware of Lane checking the back of Greg's collar, then leaving him to go to a terminal in the corner. His eye was measuring some of the largest buttplugs, and he was trying to tell himself that Lane might well point at something smaller.

Lane came back with some figures on a postit note. "Don't worry about the numbers," he said genially, "it's just the Center codes. Well, you're in luck, he could take quite a substantial tool when he was in processing. What did you have in mind?"

Wilson pointed out one buttplug, then another: he felt a quivering, speechless excitment. Lane grinned at him. "Good choices. I would start him off on one of the smaller ones, too - that one - " he pointed. "Do you want to buy a harness with that? What about gags? I do a special deal on lube with every plug or dildo - "

When thse matters had been sorted out, Wilson turned to the wall that had attracted him from the start: an array of cages and other whole body restraints - there was a gorgeous metal harness or framework. Held in that, Greg would hardly be able to move a muscle, yet his body would be entirely open to exploration. There was no price tag on it.

"Not for sale," Lane said. He ran his hand down the line of bars shaped like a man's torso. "This is an addictions cage," he told Wilson. "We used to put slaves in there if they needed a bit of extra control. I got it because it's not perfect - it was going to be discarded, some of the bars are out of true - and I'm never going to sell it. Lovely, isn't it?"

Wilson nodded. He glanced back at Greg.

"No," Lane said, grinning. "I'm not allowed to let it be used. It's strictly display only."

"Really?"

"That's my answer. I got to take it with me strictly on the understanding that I didn't sell it or use it." He was smiling at Wilson, sympathetic. "Now if you're interested in that kind of thing, take a look at this - "

A cage, just over six foot long and three foot wide and four foot high, with a door at one of the ends. "This is ex-Center surplus too," Lane said. "You can see it's been used - " the bars looked battered and scratched, but still sturdy. "You can keep a slave in there indefinitely, providing you take him out regularly for his physical needs. Is that something that appeals to you?"

"Oh no," Wilson said, knowing he sounded completely insincere. But he couldn't do that to Greg. He was required to produce him for his work. "No, I couldn't do that." He bent to check the price tag, and whistled. "I couldn't afford that anyway."

"But you do like the idea of putting him in a cage?" Lane nodded, seeing Wilson's agreement. "Well, I'll tell you what I would do, then. Buy a dog crate. A big enough one for a St Bernard. Get one that folds up and it's not even a waste of space when it's not in use. Cost you about a hundredth of what that cage would cost you. Not as sturdy, but realistically, he'd never break his way out of a dog crate unless you left him in it for twenty-four hours or so unobserved, and I don't recommend that anyway - better to have a slave under observation all the time he's caged. At least, you shouldn't leave him alone in the house when he's in the cage - it's not safe."

There were a few other items Wilson wanted to buy, and Lane and he walked round to pack them up. He paid Lane, a fairly hefty price, including an order for a custom-made hood. Greg had knelt down so obediently, and was still kneeling there, silent and still. Not quite still, Wilson saw: he was trembling a little, his hands shaking on his stomach. Lane took the hood off and Greg gasped, shaking his head, staring round. He said nothing. Lane laughed and ruffled Greg's hair, and Wilson, ordinarily affronted by someone else casually touching Greg, found he didn't mind: Lane had been extremely helpful and perceptive. He wondered, if he came back some time after Lane had decided he could be trusted, if Lane would let him try Greg in the addictions cage. He wouldn't need it for very long, but he thought Greg would look _wonderful_ there.

Lane summoned a slave to carry the parcel out to the car, and Wilson had it stowed in the back seat. He got Greg into the passenger seat - Greg was trembling and uncooperative, but he went when Wilson pushed him. "All right," Wilson said. "We'll be home soon. By the way, I called my lawyer - the manumission's gone through. Lady's free and on her way to Mexico."

Greg's head twisted round and he stared at Wilson, who smiled back encouragingly.

"I made sure she got that hundred dollars Cameron shouldn't have given you," Wilson added. "We'll need to order in something for supper tonight."

_tbc_


	17. All In

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux", which just came to a close at the end of the fourth season (see her livejournal!). But CollarRedux continues (and is planned to keep going at least through to season four, if I can). The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

**2.17 All In**

There's a lot Wilson knew he hadn't planned out about having Greg in his apartment, available to him, but also vulnerable and valuable and dangerous. Despite what Lane said, the cage was pretty much essential if Wilson needed to go out and not take Greg with him. If he had plans for the evening, he could leave Greg at the hospital, but if he needed to make a grocery run or some other domestic emergency, not necessarily his own (Bonnie had gone on calling on Wilson for years to do things like empty mouse traps), he'd need to be able to leave Greg somewhere secure. The room designated as slave quarters could be locked from the outside, but Wilson knew better than to assume Greg would be secure locked in an ordinary room.

What he had to do was to get Greg to trust and obey him, to have confidence in Wilson's care and control: the state of mind that Stacy Warner had evidently induced in Greg. Once he'd achieved that, he wouldn't need to lock Greg up for security when he had to leave him alone in the apartment for short periods.

All the way home from the store, with the carton in the back seat, Greg silent beside him, Wilson thought out exactly how this should work. He'd order Chinese - he knew exactly what Greg couldn't resist, and he'd buy all the tempting dishes. They'd both put leftovers in to the fridge, and clear up, and at eight sharp, Greg would get his oxycontin - Wilson wouldn't make him beg for it. Then he'd draw a hot bath, and Greg could soak in that for a while. They'd go to bed early. Wilson would have a blow-job at some point, Greg usually offered and Wilson would accept when he did. They'd sleep together.

Three days with Greg on nothing but clinic duty. Wilson could deliver him to the clinic, feed him lunch, take him home in the evening. Greg would learn to relax. Wilson would ease him into being happy with the - tools, Lane had called them - if Greg had taken them before, he could take them again. He liked fucking Greg, but he could wait.

Greg sat down on the hall floor as Wilson was locking the front door. Wilson turned to look at him with raised eyebrows. "If you're tired, it'll be easier if you sit down on the sofa," he told him.

Greg scooted to the nearest wall, still on his ass, and pressed his back up against it. "Come on," Wilson said, impatiently.

"What for?" Greg said after a moment.

"What do you mean - what for?" Wilson was impatient. "Supper - your painkillers - "

"Think I'll just stay here," Greg said. When Wilson stepped closer, he cringed back against the wall, but his head stayed up, staring at Wilson.

"Don't be ridiculous," Wilson said. He was tired and hungry. He wanted to sit down, watch something mind-numbing on TV, enjoy holding Greg, eat when the food arrived. "You can't sit there all night."

Greg seemed to give that a little thought. "What's to stop me?"

"It'll do your leg in," Wilson told him impatiently.

"Going to report me to Doctor Cuddy, have me whipped for self-harm because I wouldn't get off my ass?" Greg asked.

Wilson opened his mouth, closed it again. If Greg really did keep up this silliness of sitting there all night, his leg was going to be disablingly painful all the next day, compromising his clinic work - and Wilson supposed being whipped for self-harm would be an appropriate reaction to that, for some slaves. But not with Greg, Wilson thought. (Also, if he did have Greg whipped at the hospital for disobeying him like this, he expected Cuddy would strongly suggest he take the tag off Greg's collar and stop taking him home.) "No, of course not," he said. Greg was trembling a little, his chin lifted, eyeing Wilson with that kind of fragile defiance familiar from encounters in Cuddy's office, back before Wilson really got interested in the Diagnostics slave.

Wilson picked up a flyer for a Chinese delivery place that had arrived with the junk mail, took out his cellphone, and called the number. He ordered a meal he knew Greg would like, checked the delivery time - forty minutes, they said - and put the cellphone back.

"I'm not going to report you to Cuddy for anything you do or say at home," Wilson told Greg firmly and kindly. "What happens here, gets settled here."

Wilson had put the carton from Lane's store down by the door when he locked it. He saw Greg's eyes move to look at it. He hadn't bought a whip, or any of the other instruments of correction that Lane sold. It occurred to him that Greg wouldn't know exactly what he'd bought. "I'm not going to beat you myself, either," he assured Greg. "But you're not going to sit here till the food arrives. I'm going to run you a hot bath. We've time for that before we eat." He picked up the carton and walked down the hall to his bedroom, leaving Greg by himself.

When he came back Greg was still sitting in the hall, hands folded over his knees. He looked up at Wilson.

"Come," Wilson said, firmly and definitely. He reached down and took hold of Greg's hands. He wasn't surprised when Greg didn't move. This had happened before - when Wilson had taken Greg's cane away, when Greg had been sitting on the office floor for a lot longer. Wilson had jerked Greg part-way to his feet, and Greg had screamed. Wilson had masturbated over that incident more often than he'd ever admit to anyone. "I'm not going to let you sit there all night."

"How can you stop me?" Greg said. He swallowed. "Cuddy gets at least two security guards bigger than _me_ when she wants to move me somewhere. You're not in their league. Not unless you rented some."

There was a pause. Wilson stood up again, rubbing the back of his neck. Greg's cane was still lying on the floor, tucked against him as if he were hoping Wilson wouldn't notice it.

"Why would you want to?" Wilson asked.

Greg looked away. "You don't want to know."

"Why would I ask if I don't want to know?"

"Beats me," Greg said, and snickered. He stopped laughing when he caught Wilson's eye again, and looked away down the hall. "How do you think this is going to end?"

"With you having a nice hot bath, a good meal, and your painkillers, I hope," Wilson said promptly.

"Not tonight." Greg shook his head. He looked back at Wilson. "I mean all of this. You've got me tagged. You get to take me home whenever you want to play with me. Cuddy's willing to go along because she thinks this kind of individual attention is what her Diagnostics equipment needs to keep me running smoothly. How long is this going to be fun for you?"

Wilson reached down and petted Greg's hair. "A long time, I think," he said, feeling a rush of tenderness. "I don't want to play with you. I want to take care of you. I want you. I'm not going to hurt you."

Greg twisted his head sideways, out from under Wilson's hand. He looked up at Wilson with frank disbelief on his face.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, again, looking down at the slave on the floor. There were a bunch of ways round this - the simplest was to call the super, tip him lavishly, and get him to help Wilson drag Greg to the bathroom: Wilson could then strip Greg off and get him into the tub. That would be impossible by himself if Greg were actually fighting back, but he seemed to have decided on passive resistance. Or he could ask the Chinese delivery guy when he arrived - that might be easier than admitting to the building super that Wilson had problems handling a slave. Or he could leave him here for the night - take his cane away: deal with whatever issues arose with the clinic tomorrow.

What would Greg expect him to do? Any of the above, or hit Greg, beat him: punish him in some way. Wilson sighed. The way to handle Greg seemed to be to try the unexpected. "All right," he said, and walked away, down the hall to let the cooling water out of the tub, and back to the sitting-room to sit uncomfortably on the sofa, channel-flipping, wondering what Greg was doing in the hall.

About half an hour later, when the doorbell rang, Greg was still sitting in the hall. Wilson opened the door, accepted the fragrant bags of food, and walked back, swinging the bags close to Greg's face. "Supper's ready whenever you are," he threw over his shoulder.

Wilson wasn't even sure if this would work: as he laid out the food on the table, and fetched silverware from the kitchen area, he wondered what the next step was if Greg just stayed in the hall. He had to have his painkillers - besides, there was no point in denying them unless Wilson was right there to enjoy the pain. That meant he had to eat: a sandwich and a bottle of water? Or some of that slave chow, if there was any left?

But after five minutes or so, Wilson heard the sound of Greg getting laboriously to his feet and limping down the hall. He let Greg sit down on the sofa, and handed him a plate, pointing the choice of chopsticks or silverware. "Help yourself."

"The human heart is a giant muscle, squeezing or contracting over 60 times each minute," Greg said, through a mouthful of pancake and rice.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Wilson asked sharply.

"Just making conversation," Greg said. He held out his hand just as the clock ticked over to eight: Wilson glanced at the clock, shrugged, and gave Greg his oxycontin.

"Early Greek doctors thought that air entered the lungs and heart and was carried through the body in the arteries," Greg said, after he'd swallowed the pills. "Galen figured out arteries carry blood, but he thought the heart moved blood in a kind of tidal flow, he had no idea blood circulates. He wasn't allowed to dissect human corpses, of course, he had to do his best with apes, and he probably didn't cut them up alive. He also thought that an excess of black bile was the cause of cancer. In the 17th century they thought cancer was contagious. The first cancer hospital in France had to move out of Paris in 1779 because people were afraid it would spread."

"People used to think cancer comes from trauma," Wilson corrected him.

"Both," Greg shrugged. "People can be stupid on two levels at once." He went on eating, eyeing Wilson.

"Why didn't you want to have a hot bath?" Wilson asked curiously.

"I'm a doctor," Greg said, flatly.

"I know that," Wilson said. "Soaking in hot water will make your leg feel better. You know that perfectly well."

"I'm a doctor," Greg said again. He tipped some more food on to his own plate, and went on eating. "Legally I'm hospital equipment, and you can take me home and play with me just if you were kinky for the portable MRI machine, if you take care not to break the equipment. It's easier for everyone if you just treat me like hospital equipment, except when the hospital actually needs me to act like a doctor. You have no talent for human relationships, so you're trying to have one with _me_."

The food Wilson was eating seemed to go cold in his mouth. He swallowed with an effort."You're trying to make me angry," Wilson realised.

"I'm afraid of making you angry," Greg said tonelessly. "I just want to make it clear to you I know why you're doing this."

"I want to care for you," Wilson reiterated.

Greg shrugged. He started eating again. "The human lungs contain about 1500 miles of airways and the alveoli have a total surface area of about the same area as one side of a tennis court."

"Are you going to repeat odd facts about human anatomy all night?"

"God, that would be annoying," Greg said.

Wilson was surprised into laughing. Greg gave him an odd smirk, that Wilson realised looked like a suppressed laugh.

"Give this a chance," Wilson said. He knew he could make Greg enjoy having sex with him - he relished that - but he wanted to get Greg to enjoy Wilson's pleasure: get him to relax and feel safe. "Whatever happens, I'm not going to report your behavior to Cuddy, okay?"

Greg stared down at his plate, stirring the food with the end of a chopstick. He used chopsticks with casual expertise: he'd mentioned speaking Japanese. He must have lived there for a while. Wilson wondered more about that, if he could get Greg to talk about his past. Greg looked up again at Wilson. "I'm a doctor," he repeated again, lifting his chin, looking oddly defiant.

"Yes," Wilson said, "you're very valuable, got that. Relax. I'm not going to damage you. Now are you going to let me give you a long hot bath this evening?"

Greg's shoulders slumped. He said nothing. After Wilson had cleared up the cartons and put the leftovers tidily away, he came back to the sofa and took Greg's cane away, laying it neatly on the table. "Come on," he said gently.

Greg's head jerked up. His eyes were cold. "Your marriages all failed, you aren't friends with anyone you work with, you don't have any friends outside of work. You've tagged me because with me you don't need to be any good at relationships, you just get to do whatever you want to me and I can't get away. But I _am_ a doctor."

Wilson closed his mouth, which had fallen open. "I think I know that," he said, trying not to sound too impatient. _And of course I have friends_, he had been about to say, defensively, but what was he doing defending his personal life to a slave?

Besides, he didn't have friends. Not the sort you go to when your marriage breaks down. He always had friends of the kind you and your wife exchange dinner parties with, perhaps even rent a house together when you go on vacation. He'd think about that later. "Come on," he repeated.

Wilson took Greg's hand and helped him up. He walked him through to the bedroom and pointed out the handsome wooden cane. "But you won't need it now," he promised. He'd put the carton of items out of sight so Greg wouldn't worry about it. He made him use the toilet, and even turned his back to run the bath so that Greg could have a little privacy.

Wilson took his jacket off and hung it up, took his tie off and put it away, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Greg sat on the lavatory and watched him, his face withdrawn and almost frightened. Wilson smiled at him. He couldn't make up his mind if he enjoyed that trace of fear: he really got a thrill out of Greg in pain, but tonight he wasn't planning to cause Greg any pain. He undressed him, putting the clothes aside - he'd need to get permission from Cuddy to take Greg shopping, he supposed, but that would be interesting, to show Greg off and get him dressed up. Blue shirts, to match his eyes, not styled like the hospital bought for him to conceal his collar, but something that would show it off and display the tag.

The bathwater was hot, not unbearably so - Wilson tested it with his elbow. He helped Greg in and got him to lie back against the back of the bath, smiling as - involuntarily - Greg relaxed a bit, feeling the hot water soothe the damaged muscles of his legs. He took down the shower-head and Greg flinched outright, sitting up.

"Relax," Wilson said soothingly, switching on the water. "I'll be careful." He worked shampoo and then conditioner into Greg's hair, enjoying the fine texture - if the hospital groomer let Greg's hair grow, it would have a bit of curl to it. He got Greg to lie back again, thinking about getting a cushion for Greg's head, and took a sponge and a washcloth to the rest of Greg's body, using scented soap, being gentle: he couldn't see Greg's back, where most of the whip scars were, but there were marks elsewhere, too. Greg's cock was limp in the water, stiffening a little as Wilson handled him, washing carefully and thoroughly. He wondered how Greg would look fully shaved. He supposed the hospital groomer could handle that, too: it might be an odd request, but it must have happened before. Or he could do it himself, if he was careful: Wilson looked up and saw Greg watching him with intent wariness as Wilson soaped around his balls. Greg had shut up at last.

"No odd medical facts to tell me about the human body?" Wilson inquired. He moved down to Greg's legs and feet, the left visibly more muscled than the right, the right with that wonderful, enticing scar.

Greg shook his head. His hands were clenched on the side of the bath. Wilson took his time over the scar, gentle as could be: Greg had to learn that Wilson wasn't going to hurt him. That would be different from enjoying his pain: it would be wrong, unless Greg really needed it. Aside from the odd stubbornness earlier this evening, Greg really hadn't done anything wrong. It was great being so intimate with this scar: Wilson anticipated learning every square inch of it, the ragged edges, the deeply indented middle.

Greg had nice feet, too. He'd spent a lot of time on his feet, and they bore the marks of cheap shoes that hadn't been well-fitted, but under the marks they were still shapely. Wilson finished by washing Greg's face, warning him when he should close his eyes, fascinated by how his lips seemed to quiver and flinch. When Wilson passed the washcloth over part of Greg's jaw, his lips fell apart, briefly: interested, Wilson pressed there again and Greg's mouth opened again and closed.

Wilson got Greg out of the bath and wrapped him in a sheet towel, then sat him on the lavatory seat again to finish drying him off. He had a strained, frightened expression, and Wilson kissed him. "It's all right. Come on. Time for bed." He put Greg naked between the sheets, and went back into the bathroom to use the facilities himself.

Greg had curled up, on his side, concealing the scar. Wilson petted him, disappointed. He thought about unpacking the carton, but decided that could wait. He had plenty of time to be patient. He held Greg, one hand stroking his cock, the other the scar, until he could get Greg to come, and pressing against Greg's buttocks without trying to enter, come himself.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

There was a big oncology benefit at the hospital that week: a fund-raising poker tournament, some of the wealthiest donors invited to play against hospital staff. Somewhat to Wilson's surprise, Doctor Cuddy was a good player.

Greg wasn't to be there, of course, though Wilson had seen him occasionally at hospital events, dressed up neatly in evening clothes, standing next to Cuddy as if he were on a leash. But tonight was strictly a fundraiser, and there would be no point (and potentially, a good deal of offense) for a slave to play poker.

The annual oncology poker tournament predated Wilson's tenure as department head by quite a few years: most of the donors who bought seats at the tables were old hands. Last year Wilson had been too busy memorizing all the names and faces to really relax and enjoy playing poker.

There was some competition among the poker fiends on staff to get a seat - the hospital allowed for 1 in 10 of the attendees to be hospital staff, exempt from the entry fee, though not from the buy-in costs for a fresh set of chips. The tournament rules allowed unlimited buy-ins for the first hour. One of the donors (Hayes: he'd endowed three intensive care beds in the pediatric oncology ward over the past five years) was grumbling to Wilson that unlimited buy-ins took away from the science of tournaments, when Doctor Wells from ER came in and threaded his way through the tables directly to Cuddy.

"Got one of your patients in the ER," Wells said quietly: Wilson was sitting to her left, and heard every word. "Ian Alston, six years old?"

"Oh, I know him," Cuddy said. "What's the problem?" She added, to the table, "I'm all in." Either she had good cards, or was trying to get herself knocked out early. Wilson had staked the minimum amount for this round.

"Bloody diarrhoea," Doctor Wells said. "Haemodynamically stable but he's been developing some co-ordination problems."

"That sounds like gastroenteritis and dehydration. Order fluids and I'll take it on my service."

Wilson made up his mind, and folded. He did not intend to get knocked out early in the tournament, and he didn't want to plan on taking advantage of the buy-ins - which were set at a fairly steep rate.

Cuddy was bluffing. Wilson grimaced. Generally, he was considered good at poker. He hoped that they balanced off the tables soon.

They were still at the same table when Doctor Brown, left on call for oncology, came in and headed for their table.

"Doctor Wilson, Diagnostics has a patient, they asked for an opinion."

"Okay," Wilson said. He had a nice hand, a fairly good pair. He would have preferred to handle House and his team, but even if he got knocked out, he'd still need to stay till the tournament ended, about another two hours.

"It looks like Kawasaki's disease to me, or maybe juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. But the Diagnostics department - " that was hospital code for _the slave_, used when patients or donors might hear " - says it's got to be something that an elderly patient could get, too."

Cuddy looked up - clearly reacting to Doctor Brown, rather than the game. "A 73-year-old woman?"

Brown nodded.

Cuddy glanced down at her cards, and across the table at Wilson. "All in," she said again, and somehow Wilson knew she didn't expect to win this time.

And she didn't. She got up from the table, with the politeness of an old poker hand, and Hayes gave Wilson a shark-like grin. Cuddy nodded to Wilson: "I'm going to talk to the Diagnostics department."

"Do you want me to come with," Wilson asked.

"I'll send someone if I need you," Cuddy said.

But that was the last medical call of the night. The tables collapsed in the slow rhythm of a big poker tournament, and by a mix of good luck (Wilson acknowledged) and good judgement, he stayed in, as the minimum bets kept going up and the number of tables went down.

Finally, with three pocket aces, Wilson was facing Burman from Business Affairs with more chips than he himself had. He had never played Burman before, but at last year's tournament, Burman had won it (good thing there was no cash prize). Wilson called, but didn't raise. Burman paired his king on the flop. Wilson said, in a calm and bored kind of voice, "I call." He still didn't raise. The river turned, and no one bet; Wilson kept his voice bored. His brothers would have known he was acting. "I check."

Burman went all-in: Wilson didn't even let himself smile. "I call," he said for the last time, and flipped his cards. He'd won the tournament. The donors who'd stayed to watch it to the end applauded: Wilson remembered to look modest and appreciative. One of the donors handed him an expensive cigar, and tucked another in his pocket "for later".

It all felt curiously unsatisfactory. It wasn't the first time Wilson had won a really big game, but it was the first time he hadn't been able to brag about it. He shouldn't feel this empty about bragging rights. For the department head of oncology to win the oncology benefit tournament once was not so bad (though he'd better try not to do it again) but the point of the tournament was the money it raised, not the personal triumph of any hospital staff.

He could still collect Greg and take him home. It was late, but Wilson thought he could probably delay Greg's clinic work tomorrow, if he he agreed to let him stay a bit later, too.

The Diagnostics box was empty except for a list of symptoms on the whiteboard, but Greg wasn't in his bunk: the glass doors were open, he was out on the balcony they shared. Wilson walked out after him. Greg whipped round, and leaned back against the balcony's fence. He looked impossibly tired. He lifted his chin.

"Tomorrow," he said. "You can do this tomorrow."

Wilson was startled. He took one step closer, starting to say something "Hey?" and saw Greg's hands clench on the fence. "Please," Greg said.

Wilson stood still. He realised later that he had known all along there was suicide mesh below the balcony, yet for some reason the tone of Greg's voice had suggested complete desperation. Cuddy had presumably taken her patient away from Greg, and the list of symptoms on the board, Wilson now remembered, had ended in one word. The patient had died.

Greg was still literally clinging to the fence, as if Wilson could drag him away from it. Wilson stepped back. He saw Greg fractionally relax. "Okay," Wilson said. He stood there, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay. You know, I won the poker tournament?" He thought he saw a gleam of interest in Greg's eyes, and let his voice show the triumph he'd been hiding: he had totally played Burman, a perfect bluff.

"Pocket aces," Greg said. He wasn't clinging to the balcony fence any more.

"I totally nailed his ass," Wilson said, happily triumphant.

"The aces were hiding all along," Greg said, his voice suddenly confident and direct. He looked right through Wilson, no fear at all, and grabbed for his cane: he walked off the balcony, out through his cubby-hole and the Diagnostics box, and, just as if his patient wasn't dead and he still had a medical responsibility, Wilson saw him heading down the hall to the elevators. The last word on the whiteboard wasn't DEAD, Wilson saw, reading it again: it was DEATH.

He guessed where Greg must have gone to when he saw the elevator Greg must have taken moving downwards: and followed in the other elevator. Greg walked into the lab without seeming to notice Wilson on his heels, but all three Diagnostic fellows reacted, looking at him.

"Test him for Erdheim-Chester disease," Greg said.

"Erdheim-Chester?" Foreman protested. "That's not even on the list!"

"Because we already did it," Chase said. "He tested negative."

"So did Esther," Cameron said.

Who was Esther? Wilson wondered.

"Disease lied," Greg said.

"Yeah, the tumor's got it in for you," Cameron said. She sounded quite tired and very exasperated. "Diseases don't lie."

"Fine," Greg said. He leaned on his cane and glared at all three of them. "It didn't lie, it slow played us. We biopsied the colon, it hadn't reached the GI tract yet. It's there now. It's in his liver, his lungs - "

"You want it to be there," Chase said. "Because then you didn't screw up twelve years ago."

Twelve years ago Wilson had been working in Philadelphia. But twelve years ago probably none of Greg's fellows had even entered pre-med. If there was something they knew he didn't, it was because there was something Greg had told them that he hadn't told Wilson.

"We can't waste our one test on the one disease we know it's not," Foreman said.

Greg lifted his head and raised his voice. "_Run the test,_" he said.

"A disease that there have been what, maybe 200 reported cases of, ever?" Chase asked.

"If Esther's family had let me do an autopsy, there'd be 201."

Wilson wondered if he should step in. Greg's authority over the Diagnostics fellows was real enough, so long as Cuddy backed him up. But it was evident that this wasn't exactly an official case. He cleared his throat. The problem was, he wasn't sure what side he should step in on.

Cameron was preparing what looked like an almost too-small sample of tissue to run a test. Foreman moved to stand between her and Wilson. Chase walked over, circling Greg, and spoke to Wilson.

"Twelve years ago, House had a patient who died, and he still doesn't know why. About three years ago - before Cameron was hired - some trucker came in here with these symptoms. House decided he was dying. Two days and a spinal tap, bone marrow extraction, and three colonoscopy's later, we sent the guy home with a bunch of painkillers and a diagnosis of a bad cheese sandwich. One of the guys who worked here before me said House tried to cure Esther least three other times."

"And Cuddy's aware of this?" Wilson asked, surer than ever that he should step in: Chase was right about the rarity of Erdheim-Chester, but the prognosis for treatment wasn't good.

"You sure about this?" Chase asked, but he wasn't talking to Wilson. He simply turned away and was looking at Greg.

"Wait, let me think about that," Greg said. "Don't pressure me." He shook his head. He still hadn't looked at Wilson. "Just run the damn test."

Cameron slid out a pair of glasses, put them on, and looked into the microscope. "Cells look macrophages."

"That's a good start," Greg said.

Foreman had been preparing the reagent. He added it to the tumor.

Greg turned sharply away. He walked over to the wall furthest from the door. "Take your time and say it loud."

Foreman smiled. "CD 68 positive."

Greg hit the wall. The sound was so loud and unexpected that all three of the fellows literally jumped. Wilson stared. Greg turned round and blindly reached for the nearest chair, sitting down and leaning his forehead on to his cane. "Start the treatment."

All three of the younger doctors looked at Wilson, but then, in silence, filed out, leaving Greg alone. After a couple of minutes during which Greg neither moved nor spoke, Wilson said "You got lucky."

Greg stood up. He wasn't very steady on his feet. He couldn't get out of the lab without passing close to Wilson, and he didn't try. He stopped a foot or so away and lifted his chin, fixing Wilson with his eyes. "What I do, is not just based on the flip of a card."

"You guessed. You got lucky."

"It fit."

Wilson had looked at the symptoms. "It could just as easily have been sarcoma or tuberous sclerosis."

"No, not just as easily."

"Maybe not. But it wasn't impossible." Wilson pointed. "I'll walk you back to Diagnostics."

After he had settled Greg in the cubbyhole - for once, Greg had gone to sleep almost as soon as he lay down - he stood looking at Greg for a while: fast asleep, the strained and frightened expression was gone from the slave's face. He wasn't even curled as defensively as he shielded himself in Wilson's bed.

Wilson went out, quietly, and stood in the Diagnostics box, staring at the scribbled whiteboard. Greg's handwriting was large and clear. Most doctors, no matter what their handwriting had been like, reverted to an incomprehensible scrawl after writing too many notes when too tired in med school. Wilson was conscious of that himself.

The ward where the Diagnostics patients were admitted had a small boy unconscious in the middle of the adult-sized bed, intubated and hooked up to a pediatric-sized IV bag, and his parents sitting either side. Wilson didn't go in: both parents had the shattered, exhausted look of people who had been through more than enough in the past few hours.

Wilson turned away: he was startled to see Doctor Cuddy in the hall. She looked into the ward, at the parents, and seemed to decide not to disturb them. She pointed down the hall, and frowning, Wilson followed after her.

"Going home?" Cuddy asked, once they were in the elevator.

"Yes," Wilson agreed. Cuddy pressed the button for the car park level.

She gave him a curious look. "Not taking Greg with you?"

"He's asleep," Wilson said. "I decided not to."

Cuddy nodded, approvingly. "I told you that I'd hold you responsible for an improvement in Greg's behavior," she said after a moment. "If you're wondering how that applies to his actions this evening, well, Greg tends to get obsessive about cases he never solved. Once he thought Ian was sick with the same thing as that woman who died twelve years ago, I would have had to put him in a cage to keep him away from his obsession." She sounded ... almost fond: Wilson had never heard her speak so kindly about Greg. She glanced at him, and spoke more crisply. "So, I thought you should know: I don't blame you for tonight. I don't believe _Stacy_ could have stopped him."

"He did save the boy's life," Wilson said. The elevator opened. "Didn't he?"

"That's what I bought him for," Cuddy said, and walked away. Wilson hesitated for a moment, staring after Cuddy, thinking about the man asleep upstairs.

_tbc_

_I can't link to it, but just to let you know: **somniator429 ** on Livejournal did a lovely pic of Greg, tagged by Wilson, "Tagged". The LJ tags: **dark wilson**. Thanks so much: you're great! And thanks to Tailkinker for pointing it out to me! _


	18. Sleeping Dogs Lie

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee... (Sorry for the long gap between updates. Also, ff's new editing format, what a pain! I keep wanting to close the side window and I can't!)  
_

**2.18 Sleeping Dogs Lie**

Mrs Wu intended to make herself miso soup with fresh ginger root and the white part of spring onion. But Meng Hsia insisted that the doctors at the free clinic could prescribe her some medicine to help her cold. Also, she spoke English very well and she would translate. There was something very pleasant about being fussed over by your youngest daughter, Mrs Wu thought. Sometimes Meng Hsia seemed so modern, wanted to be called by her English name even at home. Lately she'd been running after boys, too.

The doctor who came to see her was very tall and walked with a cane. He was foreign, of course, but Mrs Wu thought he looked like a proper doctor, not too young, very serious. He looked quite tired. She told Meng Hsia to tell the doctor that she had congestion in her nose, but the mucus was clear, a little cough -

Meng Hsia started to speak, translating her symptoms to the doctor. Mrs Wu listened to her proudly and went on explaining that she had a headache at the back of her head too.

The doctor pulled up a chair and sat down, asking Meng Hsia a question, studying Mrs Wu.

"My neck and shoulders were stiff and sometimes I have a headache in the back of my head."

Meng Hsia glanced at her and said something more to the doctor. The doctor sighed, looking at Meng Hsia, and asking her a question: they talked together for a while. The doctor didn't seem to be taking Meng Hsia very seriously. He winked at her, like a father making fun of a daughter, but he wrote a prescription and handed it over with a few more words, asking questions to which Meng Hsia answered "No," both times. Then he leaned towards Mrs Wu and said something quickly in English, smiling, very sympathetic.

"Thank you," Mrs Wu told him, and he nodded and smiled at her, and then got up again, leaning on his cane. He looked very tired.

"Open the door for him," Mrs Wu told Meng Hsia. She wanted to go home now and make the good decongestant soup, but she would take the doctor's medicine too.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

The referral was from another New Jersey hospital: a clear Diagnostics case, a woman who hadn't slept in eleven days despite downing an entire bottle of sleeping pills. Which had brought her to the ER, and her wife's repeated insistance that her wife wasn't suicidal, she just hadn't been able to sleep, had brought her file to Cuddy's desk. Cuddy confirmed by phone that PPTH would take the case, and messaged security: Doctor House to her office, no urgency, just as soon as he finished his clinic duty. The patient would likely be at PPTH before noon, when Greg was due to finish.

At one o'clock. Cuddy was notified that the patient had arrived and had now been admitted: there was still no sign of Greg. When security weren't given an urgent request to fetch Greg, they didn't ordinarily enter the clinic. Cuddy could have called Brenda to ask, but the clinic was only a few steps out of her way to lunch. The waiting room was full, but not more than ordinarily-so for a lunchtime crowd, and there were three other doctors signed-in, doing their clinic hours. No sign of Greg.

"He's in there," Brenda said, indicating the fourth exam room. The door was closed. "I sent him off to have a nap."

Cuddy raised her eyebrows. Brenda frowned. "He looked tired," she said, not defensively but rather grumpily. "If I'd known you wanted him, I'd have sent him to your office."

"He should have gone back to the Diagnostics office," Cuddy said. After the infarction, she had provided an Eames chair specifically so that Greg could rest there while reading or thinking.

"He looked tired," Brenda repeated. "I need him awake to do his clinic work."

"_That_ tired?" Cuddy was surprised. "His health reports indicate an improvement." Since the debacle of the infarction, she'd had maintenance health checks on a regular basis.

Brenda shrugged. "Over the past week or two, I'd say he's been sleeping badly." She spoke quietly. "His general health's improved, he looks a better weight and he's not getting minor injuries so often, but something - or some_one_ - is keeping him from getting a solid eight hours sleep a night."

Cuddy sighed. "Fine. I'll check him out." She went over to the exam room and opened the door. Greg was lying on the exam table. He was fast asleep. When she closed the door, he was off the exam table before she turned to look again, standing behind it, hands resting on it, blinking at her.

"Nurse Previn said I could," he said, and yawned suddenly, closing his mouth.

"Diagnostics has a case," Cuddy said coldly. She put the file on the exam table. "A twenty-five year old woman with sleep issues."

Greg half-laughed, picking the file up, glancing up at her warily, looking down at the pages and leafing through them. "If she really hadn't slept for ten days, she'd be dead. Her girlfriend _says_ she hasn't slept for ten days but I assume she was sleeping herself part of the time - "

"And then she downed an entire bottle of her _wife's_ sleeping pills. And stayed awake."

Greg went on leafing through the file. He was frowning now, and looking more awake. Absently, he rubbed at his eyes with his left hand. "Without REM sleep, your neurons stop regenerating - the brains shut down lobe by lobe. She'd be insane after five days - dead by ten. She needs a shrink."

"You have a case." Cuddy waited till Greg looked up from the file again, eyeing her warily. "Brenda tells me you look as if you've been going short on sleep for about a fortnight."

Greg froze, looking at her, his eyes wide.

"You've been generally healthier and in better condition since Doctor Wilson began to take a personal interest in you," Cuddy said, still keeping her voice cold. "But the hospital also needs you to be well-rested. Perhaps your clinic shifts should be rearranged to allow Doctor Wilson to take you home for weekends rather than evening visits." That was the arrangement that Stacy had made, most of the time.

Greg swallowed. He said, very quietly, "I didn't want Doctor Wilson to tag me."

Cuddy shook her head. Greg ought to know better. "That's not relevant. Your health - your functionality is all that's important, and that's definitely shown an improvement." She waited, saw his eyes drop. "The longest time anyone has ever survived without sleep is eleven days. That gives you 22 hours to save her life."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Both Alison Cameron and Eric Foreman came to complain about the situation Foreman's publication had caused. Though Cuddy thought Foreman, who arrived in her office twenty minutes before Cameron, ostensibly to warn her and to apologise, really to complain that the first paper of his Diagnostic fellowship had turned into a personnel disaster, and honestly, Cuddy thought, to brag.

Greg was responsible for supervising the medical practice of his Diagnostic fellows. He wasn't responsible for the administrative side of running a department, though Cuddy's secretary, who was responsible for seeing that the Diagnostics paperwork got done, made Greg do whatever he legally could. Greg was not required to sign off on papers written by Diagnostics fellows: that was Cuddy's responsibility. Apparently Cameron had asked Greg to read and sign off on her paper, just as any other department head would have been required to do.

Foreman had written his paper, on the same case, after Cameron had written hers. He'd sent his paper to Cuddy's secretary, Cuddy had looked through it and signed off on it, a routine matter of administration.

"You didn't ask Doctor House to review your paper?" Cuddy asked.

"No, I didn't ask _Greg_ to review my paper," Foreman said. He tapped the journal with his right hand, looking at her. "He's been ... occupied, the past few months."

"What are you suggesting?" Cuddy asked.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Cameron was actually angry. Cuddy reflected, listening to her patiently, that she hadn't known she could get this angry.

"He basically stole my paper."

"You were waiting for Doctor House to review it," Cuddy said.

"He _is_ the head of Diagnostics," Cameron said.

"He supervises your medical practice," Cuddy said. "You can request his review of any papers you write, but you're not required to get his sign-off before you submit for publication. You know that. Do you want to lodge a complaint against him for not reviewing your paper when you requested it?"

Cameron hesitated. "Did you read Foreman's article?"

Cuddy nodded. "It was good. So?"

"You're on his side?" Cameron looked betrayed.

"Sides? No. This isn't dodge ball." If Cameron lodged a complaint that Greg hadn't reviewed her article, and Cuddy hauled Greg in for an inquiry about why he hadn't, if Greg was serious about not wanting Wilson's tag, he'd blame Wilson taking him out of the hospital for his failure to review the article.

"What am I supposed to do?" Cameron sounded really absurdly betrayed. This was a teaching hospital, that meant it was a part of American academia, and in academia, the rule was "Publish or perish", which Cameron must be aware of. "Just sit back and take it?"

Cuddy snorted, exasperated. Sometimes Cameron reminded her of herself: but sometimes she could hardly believe she'd ever been this young. "No, write another article. Kick ass until you're sitting behind some big expensive desk and someone from John Hopkins's calls and says "We're thinking about hiring Eric Foreman as our head of neurology'." Cameron could get to that position, if she wanted to: she was a better doctor than Cuddy had been at her age, Cuddy knew without bitterness. But not as ambitious. Cuddy smiled. "And you can say whatever you want."

"Lovely," Cameron said. "Revenge as motive for success."

"Ah, it doesn't have to be a motive. But it sure tastes good." Cuddy looked directly at Cameron, lifting her eyebrows. "Are you going to lodge a complaint against Greg?"

"And let you whip him again?" Cameron scowled, suddenly angry, losing the brief intimacy. "No." She got up and walked out.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Greg very seldom asked permission to see the Dean of Medicine: in fact Cuddy couldn't remember the last time he'd done that, but it was evidently before the employment of her current secretary. "What do I do with him?"

"Send him in," Cuddy said, with a shrug. So long as it wasn't about Doctor Wilson tagging him. She glanced at the time: twenty of six. She hadn't yet decided whether to speak to Wilson, and it was too late to make any decisions like that today.

Greg limped in. "Twenty-seven year old female wants to donate half her liver to her dying wife."

"That's very generous. This the sleepless girl? What's she got?"

"Liver failure," Greg said blandly.

"I would have figured that out when you said she needed a new liver," Cuddy noted. "You don't have a diagnosis."

"The transplant buys her time. She'll die of liver failure before we _have_ a diagnosis if she doesn't get a new one right now."

"Let's just skip the part where I say this is insane," Cuddy said.

"It was her idea," Greg said.

Cuddy doubted that it had occurred spontaneously to the dying woman's wife. "You have witnesses to that?"

"All three of my fellows heard her suggest giving up half her liver," Greg said.

Three witnesses, all free, all able to testify in court, none likely to lay blame on the Diagnostics slave for hinting the possibility.

"If she wants to be an idiot, it's her call," Cuddy decided bluntly. "You don't need me. Have one of your team walk her through the process."

Greg paused. When he spoke again, it was clear from his tone of voice that this was what he had come to say. "The donor and the donee sort of have opposing interests, right? Can't really advise them both."

"You're concerned about the ethics of this? What's going on? What do you know?"

"Nothing medically relevant."

Cuddy pointed at the floor in front of her desk. Greg limped over and knelt down.

"But you know something," Cuddy said. "And it is relevant."

Greg knelt there, looking up at her, his face guarded. "This slave can't even tell her, ma'am. And if you're advising her..."

"I assume this information is in the medical file," Cuddy said.

"A patient's confidential file," Greg said.

"This hospital's file," Cuddy said.

Greg swallowed. "You can either satisfy your curiosity, or remain ignorant, do nothing ethically wrong... and that sleep-disorder patient doesn't die in three hours."

Cuddy could have instructed one of the full-time donor counselors to do the job, but she was actually curious: Greg did not normally voluntarily come to her office at all.

The wife's name was Max. She seemed determined and clear-headed: Doctor Foreman, she said, had explained to her exactly what was involved and what the tests were for - the tests they were rushing through.

"The most important part we're skipping is time. Time for you to change your mind."

Max looked at her, as if startled. "I don't want to change my mind."

"Not now," Cuddy said. She didn't _know_ what Greg knew, she hadn't looked at Max's wife's file since she referred the patient to Diagnostics, but she could guess: something about Max's wife that Greg was pretty sure would make Max reject being the donor. "With time and perspective, maybe we learn things - "

"If we had the time then we'd take the time, but we don't," Max said sharply. No one had talked to Cuddy so abruptly in a very long time. "So can you get this over with?"

"Either I sign off on this, or it doesn't happen," Cuddy said. "So I need you to listen to me. Because there's a chance that you will die on that table."

Max's eyes filled with tears and desperation. "I just want me and Hannah to be able to lie in bed together. As old ladies. Compare scars."

Cuddy was moved despite herself. There was no one, including her own sisters, she'd have felt like that about. She went on through the tests, asking the questions a donor counselor would have asked. She got no answers that made her signal a stop. She wondered what answers Greg would have got.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Mrs Wu admired the clever little wheel that was used to deliver the medicine, but the pills the doctor had prescribed didn't seem to do anything to clear up her cold. She wouldn't have worried about that but there were some other new symptoms, much more worrying because inexplicable.

She insisted Meng Hsia come with her to the clinic. They got the same foreign doctor as last time (unless there were two in this place who were very tall and walked with a stick). She explained, as soon as she saw who he was, that she'd been taking the medicine, but she hadn't got better from her cold, and her breasts were growing bigger.

Meng Hsia translated. Mrs Wu didn't know the words, but she knew when her youngest was too shy to speak. She grabbed the foreign doctor's hand and placed it on her chest. Meng Hsia said something in English. The doctor tugged his hand away, and then said something, sounding interested.

"Oh god," Meng Hsia said in English - Mrs Wu could understand that much - and then talked fast, sounding confused.

"What is it?" Mrs Wu asked.

"The doctor gave you the wrong pills," Meng Hsia said slowly. She was lying, Mrs Wu could tell.

The doctor said something else. He looked amused again, so at least it couldn't be very serious.

Meng Hsia said something, shocked, and the doctor replied to her: Mrs Wu thought she looked as if she'd been caught out.

"Congratulations, you're going to be a grandmother," the doctor said, in very bad Chinese.

Mrs Wu was shocked. Meng Hsia said something in English, even the sound of it was defensive. "What does he mean by that?" Mrs Wu demanded of her.

"I don't know!" Meng Hsia was now getting very flustered.

"Look at you," Mrs Wu snapped, "you're lying, your face is already reddening!"

The foreign doctor said something and left quietly, closing the door behind him. Mrs Wu was grateful afterwards for his tact. Meng Hsia was in very bad trouble.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Doctor House was smiling faintly when he came out of the clinic, an expression so unusual that Cameron was instantly suspicious. she joined him at the elevator door and barely waited till they were inside the elevator before she demanded "Is this just one of your experiments? You just wanted to see how I'd react to being screwed over by Foreman?"

"Nice idea," House said. He was no longer smiling. "but no. This was just good old-fashioned laziness. I got to hand it to Foreman though, he knew that you were a suck up and I don't give a crap. He successfully exploited us both."

Cameron was astonished and angry. She had always tried to treat Greg as Doctor House, as any other department head, and this was his reaction. "Right. We're both victims. You know everything about Diagnostics, you knew Foreman was writing a paper, didn't you?" Greg wasn't allowed access to a computer, but all three of the fellows had laptops, and while none of them had discussed it, Cameron guessed that all of them had left their computers where Greg could make use of them since the desktop he used was taken away. "You could have tipped me off!"

"Then I'd have Foreman pissed at me. And as annoying as you can be, at least I know you're not going to get on my ass with a riding crop."

Cameron sighed, exasperated. She was ready to end this conversation now. House wasn't going to admit he'd done anything wrong.

"You, on the other hand," House said thoughtfully, "continue to be flabbergasted every time someone actually acts like a human being. Foreman did what he did because it worked out best that way for him. That's what everyone does."

The elevator doors opened. Cameron snapped "That is not the definition of being human. That's the definition of being an ass."

Foreman was in the Diagnostics conference room. Cameron walked straight past. She would go to the post-op ward and talk to Max.

Max wasn't in her room. She was sitting on the bench in the hall from which you could see, through two walls of glass, into the ward where her wife Hannah was asleep or unconscious.

"The surgeon said I'd heal faster if I walk," Max explained. "Got this far, needed a rest. She's going to be all right, isn't she?"

"We think so," Cameron said, sitting down beside her. "The CDC experts tell us it will take time, but she should make a full recovery. Of course she'll now have to take immunosuppressants for the rest of her life..." She glanced at Max, watching her wife through two glass walls. "What you did was crazy, but it was pretty amazing too."

"Yeah. I'm a hero," Max said, almost dismissively. She added, thoughtfully, "She's been planning to leave me."

The secret House had ordered them to keep from Max. "Really?"

"She told a friend. The friend let it slip."

"You knew, and - " Cameron was horrified, impressed, and wanted to tell House " - you gave up half your liver anyway?"

Max glanced at Cameron and smiled, a glint of hidden triumph. "She can't leave me now."

Cameron sat still. Everything was reworking inside her. She said, almost on autopilot. "You really want her to stay out of guilt - that's not going to make either of you happy."

"You don't know that," Max said, the air of someone pointing out the obvious. "I love her. I just want her to stay."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

"So she had the plague," Wilson said.

Greg opened his eyes. He looked at Wilson without saying anything.

"According to Cuddy, you worked out that she had the plague from the name of the place where she got a dog that she owned for about a week."

Greg shrugged. He still didn't say anything.

"I've got permission to exempt you from your clinic hours for this weekend," Wilson said.

"Great," Greg said. "So I get two days off." He didn't sound particularly pleased.

Wilson glanced through the glass walls: it was late Friday evening and there was no one in sight.

"I want you to relax," he said calmly. "Get up."

After a moment, Greg got to his feet, picking up his cane. Wilson nodded. "Pull down your pants, and bend over the footstool."

Wilson had the smallest buttplug, and a pack of lube, in a plain plastic bag. He saw Greg's eyes flick to it. As if Greg could see through the bag, he shook his head.

"No."

"Calm down," Wilson said, still gently. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"No," Greg said. He was trembling. "This is my office. You can't do this here."

"Yes, I can," Wilson pointed out the obvious. "I tagged you." He went one step closer to Greg, meaning to touch him reassuringly, and Greg lurched back, almost offbalance, ending up against the wall.

"You can't do this," Greg repeated. "I'm a doctor. This is Diagnostics. You can't."

Wilson half-laughed. "Come on. Relax."

Greg slammed his stick, hard, against the window. It didn't break, but the noise was considerable.

"Don't do that!" Wilson was beginning to get annoyed.

Greg stood still, breathing hard. His eyes flickered, and Wilson turned: predictably, and embarrassingly, a security guard had appeared in the conference room, in response to the noise.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said at once. "Greg's being a bit uncooperative."

"Yeah," the guard said. He looked Wilson over. "You've got the slave tagged, haven't you?"

"This is the Diagnostics office," Greg said. "He's not allowed - no one's allowed - you've got to get Doctor Cuddy - "

The guard shook his head. "No one's going to pester Doctor Cuddy on a Friday night." He turned to Wilson. "I don't like to say it, Doctor, but the Diagnostics slave is right. Inside this office, he's supposed to be off-limits. Now obviously, this shouldn't apply to someone who's got him tagged. But the rules we were given don't allow for that exemption." He smiled. "Simple solution, though: you've got him tagged, you're allowed to take him out of the hospital. Need any help getting him shackled?"

Wilson looked at Greg. "No," he said.

"Sure? I got a friend, he'll be off duty in a few minutes, so will I. We can get that slave down to your car, quick and quiet, no problem."

Greg lifted his chin. His hands went together in front of his stomach, an odd awkward position that Wilson had seen before.

"No," Wilson said again.

The guard shrugged and left. Greg stood still, looking at Wilson, bewilderment written all over his face.

"I want you to cooperate with me," Wilson said.

Greg sat down again, after a long moment. He leaned his head back against the headrest, and looked up at Wilson, thoughtfully. "Then you're shit out of luck, aren't you?"

_tbc_

_Tailkinker and I are now posting "Sixteen Days", our joint novel-length sequel to "Seven Stages", about the early days of Greg's life at PPTH. Until we're done posting it (on or about Independence Day... lol) I'm taking a hiatus from posting chapters to CollarRedux. See you in July!_


	19. House Vs God

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee... omg, it's been nearly 4 weeks! Sorry for the delay since the last time, hope it was worth waiting for! Say, did you read anything good since then?_

**2.19 House vs. God**

Mondays had been bad days in the Diagnostics department for weeks now. Each time Doctor Wilson took Greg home for the weekend, Cameron thought, Greg returned to the hospital a little more destroyed. He'd take cases when other department heads forced them on him or when Foreman or Cameron came up with something, but he hadn't spontaneously announced he wanted a case and sent them looking in a long time.

Last week had actually been surprisingly good, though: Doctor Wilson hadn't been around much. House had looked twitchy every time they saw the oncologist walk past the Diagnostics department, but although Wilson had provided regular bag lunches - at least, Chase said he saw House eating them - none of the fellows had walked in on Wilson sitting with House.

Cameron shook her head when Chase asked her. "I haven't seen them together much."

"I don't think Wilson's taking Greg home any more," Foreman said. He grinned, speculatively. "He's still got him tagged. Could be doing him in his office."

"Wilson wouldn't do that," Cameron said. Doctor Wilson thought very well of himself: he wouldn't risk getting caught in his own office.

Greg did clinic hours eight to ten on Monday morning, sometimes eight till noon if there weren't enough free doctors. When Wilson had claimed him for the weekend he would arrive just after ten, still looking like Greg, and sidle into the cubbyhole at the back of the Diagnostics conference room without speaking to any of them.

While Greg was still in the clinic, Foreman had been called to look at a kid who'd been brought in on Sunday night, and he had summoned Cameron and Chase: a dark-haired fifteen-year-old, calm and polite, who'd been hit by severe cramps on Sunday night when he was preaching.

"Let's take it to House," Chase said.

"For cramps and dilute urine," Foreman said, but not in a tone of voice that said he disagreed.

"He seems to be fine now," Cameron said. "I'll get the blood work done." She was doubtful.

Chase said quietly, "Boyd says God talks to him. House'll love that."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_What doest thou here, Boyd?_

The voice in Boyd's head would not be silenced, but Boyd whispered "Go forth, and stand upon the mount before Jehovah. And, behold, Jehovah passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before Jehovah; but Jehovah was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but Jehovah was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but Jehovah was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice."

There had been silence when Boyd had ... done what he had done. God hadn't spoken. Nor had there been the earthquake or the fire. Only sudden, disabling cramps, over and over again. On Sunday night, that had been the first time the cramps had taken him in front of anyone else.

Dad had gone out again to refill his water bottle at the cooler when the door opened and a man walked in: he wasn't wearing a white coat and he was walking with a stick, but something about him said _doctor_ not _patient_.

The man closed the door and turned to look at him. One of the nurses had said that Boyd was now a "Diagnostics" case: that the doctors who had come to examine him worked for Doctor House.

_And thou shalt remember that thou wast a servant in the land of Egypt, and Jehovah thy God brought thee out thence by a mighty hand and by an outstretched arm: therefore Jehovah thy God commanded thee to keep the sabbath day._

The man said "So, you're a faith healer." He limped closer, looking at Boyd with a frown. "Or is that a pejorative? Do you prefer something like divine health management?"

Boyd frowned. Sometimes what the still small voice told him made sense at once, more often he had to puzzle it out and think about it. God wanted him to pay attention to _everything_: Dad said that just because God spoke to him, was no reason not to use his God-given brains.

"I thought God might have mentioned that I was coming," the man said, smiling, showing his teeth.

The connection with the Sabbath escaped Boyd still, but he said politely, "I'm OK with faith healer, Doctor House."

Doctor House looked startled but distinctly pleased, in a relishing kind of way: he looked like the kind of person who showed up in the congregation to "prove" Boyd didn't really heal people. "Oh," he said, and grinned wider. "That's a nice one, didn't even go with 'I see an "H" and a medical coat.'"

"The nurses talk about you a lot," Boyd explained.

"Ah, don't believe them," Doctor House said. "I keep a sock in my pants."

Boyd tagged that as "dirty joke". There were adults who thought it was especially funny to tell a boy preacher dirty jokes.

"Faith - that's another word for ignorance isn't it?" Doctor House was still grinning. "Never understood how people could be so proud of believing in something with no proof at all. Like that's an achievement."

_And he that regarded not the word of Jehovah left his servants and his cattle in the field._

That seemed pretty clear. "God's asking for our trust. You can't love somebody and not trust them." Boyd noticed that Doctor House reacted three times - to the word _trust,_ to the word_ love_, and again more strongly (though still minutely - nothing Boyd would have seen without God telling him that there was something to see) to _trust_ a second time.

"Trust has to be earned; can't trust someone hiding in a closet."

Doctor House was standing as if braced: as if he expected to be knocked down.

"You don't trust anyone," Boyd said, and watched Doctor House minutely react again to the word.

"You seem lucid," Doctor House said, "there's no confusion, no lethargy. What drugs have you been taking?"

"Nothing," Boyd said in relief. He didn't have to lie about that. He hoped God would help him. He admitted to aspirin for his headaches.

"So aspirin and hospitals are OK," Doctor House said. "That's an interesting attitude for someone who's kept any number of people from getting medical help."

Dad opened the door and came back in with Boyd's water bottle. Doctor House glanced at him briefly.

"Just because I believe in prayer," Boyd said, "doesn't mean I don't believe in germs and toxins."

But Doctor House wasn't looking at him any more. He had a short conversation with Dad about the water bottle, and walked out as brusquely as he had walked in.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

The conference door opened abruptly, and Doctor Wilson came in. Cameron stood up: Wilson looked very angry. "Who let an unstable Diagnostics patient wander the halls?" he demanded.

House was standing by the whiteboard. His hand gripped it. His voice was still Doctor House: the conference table and all three fellows were between him and Wilson. "Sorry. His leash broke."

"The last thing a terminal cancer patient needs to hear is taunts about a cure!" Wilson was actually shouting now. "She was freaked, she was angry - " He sucked in a breath. "You think I won't report you to Cuddy?"

Cameron saw Foreman frame the word "Whoa" with his mouth. He didn't say it out loud. Cameron cleared her throat, intending to deflect Doctor Wilson with words, but House spoke first. He looked fascinated. "Your patient," he said. "She was freaked and angry. And now she's not, and you are."

"She's feeling happy!" Wilson took a long step towards House. His hands were twitching at his sides. "Maybe not singing or dancing but she's feeling just a little bit better for the first time in months."

"Let her have the vacation," Chase said. "Sudden drop in pain could create euphoria."

Wilson turned his head to look at Chase. Cameron wondered if he had even noticed the three of them in the room before that. He glanced from Chase to Cameron to Foreman, but his gaze slipped back to House. "Oh, that's great. And when vacation's over, when she crash lands from all this denial, she was dealing with her illness. Now her expectations are rising and you're not the one who has to be there when all that false hope gets yanked out from under her." And then, without coming closer to House than the other side of the table, he turned around and walked out.

House yanked a chair from the conference table and sat down, rather hurriedly. He looked pale. He glared at the three of them. "Don't you guys have anything to do?"

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Grace would never have got involved with James if the world had been a little bigger.

Once long ago when James had been "Doctor Wilson" and had given her the worst news possible, the world had seemed so much larger, and she'd giggled with the oncology nurses about Doctor Wilson's wife (his third!) getting caught having an affair, and Wilson moving into a hotel, and his taking one of the hospital slaves back to the hotel with him.

Back then it just seemed funny. Back then she remembered joking to her friends at work that oncology nurses had the best gossip.

Now she didn't have any friends. She'd sold the big apartment she and her husband used to live in, because she couldn't work and the apartment's sale brought enough money that would last out her life. (She'd never had to think before of what could happen to a slave with terminal cancer, and the hospital's financial adviser assured her that she shouldn't think of it now.)

Now she lived in the little apartment by herself: she'd given away their cats, and she didn't sleep well. She knew James wasn't good husband material, she knew that he'd been doing one of the hospital slaves pretty regularly, but he wasn't doing that slave right now and she didn't need a husband. She needed someone who would hold her, cook her digestible meals, sit with her as she watched classic movies, and not ever tell her, _Everything's going to be all right._

Because it wasn't. And James knew it wasn't.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Boyd didn't often get to talk with the people he healed. God reminded him he didn't need to, that he wasn't granted the gift of healing so that he could receive their gratitude or their admiration.

Grace was nice. Boyd enjoyed talking with her. He couldn't really tell her to go away: she was coming into the hospital regularly for treatments, he was stuck here until the tests were finished. He'd healed her in the middle of a complex partial seizure, they told him: he'd just been aware, more overwhelmingly than ever before, that God loved him, that God let him heal because God loved him. And there in the centre of God's love for him was the face of a woman he hadn't harmed: he touched her face, he loved her with God's love for him, and she was healed.

Dad was off sorting out paperwork about the health insurance. It was mid-morning, Grace wouldn't be in for hours. Boyd got up and went out for a walk down the hall. He meant to continue that conversation with Doctor House.

The big glass conference room labeled Diagnostics (unlike all the other rooms, there wasn't a doctor's name as well) was empty when Boyd first walked past, but he saw Doctor House coming down the hall from the elevator. This time, he was wearing a white coat.

Boyd waited till Doctor House was in the conference room, and went in. There was a big table and a whiteboard. A line was drawn down the middle of the whiteboard. "House" on one side and "God" on the other. There were two points on God's side, one point on House's side.

"You actually keep score?" Boyd asked.

_As a servant that earnestly desireth the shadow, And as a hireling that looketh for his wages: So am I made to possess months of misery, And wearisome nights are appointed to me._

Doctor House limped over to the coffee-maker and poured himself a mug. He turned around and said, evenly, "Your MRI results aren't done yet; go back to your room. No singing." He lifted his chin.

_While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, The fire of God is fallen from heaven, and hath burned up the sheep and the servants, and consumed them; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee._

"Well you would get a point for figuring why the low sodium," Boyd said. "what are my guy's points for?"

"Your trick about the spat between Doctor Cameron and Doctor Foreman apparently impressed someone. Go back to your room." Doctor House still looked as if he were braced for impact.

_For as many of you as were baptized into Christ did put on Christ. There can be neither Jew nor Greek, there can be neither bond nor free, there can be no male and female; for ye all are one in Christ Jesus._

Boyd asked "And the second point?" He stared. He understood suddenly why the roll-top, why Doctor House looked as if he expected to be knocked down, what God had been trying to tell him. "Do you think it could be because I... healed Grace? She's been back to see me, I like her."

"You like messing with people," the slave said. "That's why you're here now. Now maybe you think that your batteries are powered by God, maybe you don't. Either way, you enjoy what you do."

"Yes," Boyd agreed at once. Why did God want him to know Doctor House was a slave? "I like helping people. I get a rush when I see the look on their faces when they realize their burdens are gone." Was he supposed to lift a slave's burden?

"But you make sure you're in the next state by the time the endorphins wear off and the arthritis comes back."

Boyd shook his head. "That doesn't happen."

"Oh, you do extensive follow-up studies?"

_And, behold, there came a great wind from the wilderness, and smote the four corners of the house, and it fell upon the young men, and they are dead; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee._

"God told me."

The slave actually looked amused. "That's not fair. We were having fun; it's hard to keep sniping rationally when you throw a bomb like that in there. Go back to your room." He walked into the little cubbyhole behind the glass conference room, and Boyd followed.

"He spoke with me about you too."

The slave stopped in the doorway and turned, blocking it. He lifted his chin and looked down at Boyd. From this angle, this close, Boyd could quite clearly see the collar around his throat under the rolltop.

"Forgive my enemies," the slave said, "never date a Taurus when Mercury's in retrograde, yeah, I learnt that one myself, the hard way."

"God tells me you need help," Boyd said.

"Next time, tell God to be more specific," the slave said. He was still grinning, showing most of his teeth, but he didn't look amused.

"God told me you're a slave," Boyd said.

The slave's mouth shut. His eyes widened.

"God didn't tell me to tell my dad," Boyd said. "God told me you need help with Doctor Wilson."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Foreman was pretty sure it was Chase who was doing the crazy thing with the points for House and for God. Cameron didn't have that kind of sense of humor.

That didn't mean he found it funny when Greg started saying things like "Tie goes to the mortal," over a diagnosis of tuberous sclerosis.

Foreman had an open mind about "miracle cures": sometimes remissions just happened. Sometimes tumors shrank, for no reason that a patient's doctor could understand. But for once, he actually agreed with House: if their patient was rejecting treatment because he believed he'd cured cancer by prayer, they had better prove to their patient, and even more to the point to his father, that there was an ordinary physical cause for the cancer patient's remission.

Tuberous sclerosis. Benign tumors in his brain. Illusions that God was talking to him. Foreman wasn't superstitious: if God wanted to communicate with Boyd, He'd find some way of doing it without tumours that would kill the boy eventually.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Boyd was only fifteen, but he was so polite and so thoughtful. He seemed older.

Grace told him she was seeing someone - she didn't identify him as James, but she had the feeling from the way he looked at her that he knew. "Even if we could get married, I probably wouldn't," Grace admitted. "We don't talk about it, but he's a three-time loser - I don't think he's really good at being married."

"But he cares for you," Boyd said.

"Yes," Grace said. She hesitated, Boyd was so young, but surely he must have heard of these things happening "He's very caring - very kind. But he - people say," she avoided saying "nurses say", "He was - 'seeing' a slave. I mean he was - "

"I know what that means," Boyd said. He put his hand on hers. "God says that we should deal justly with slaves. He doesn't say it's wrong to make use of them."

Grace nodded. She knew that was what everyone said. It still made her feel uncomfortable though. She shook hands with Boyd and left: she didn't notice James until he fell into step beside her.

"Did you know the Catholic Church keeps a doctor at Lourdes? He hears the same thing every day. But, out of the thousands of cases of people who've claimed to feel better, the Catholic Church has only recognized a handful as miracles."

"But they do recognize a handful." Grace would have acknowledged herself a Christian if anyone had asked - but she hadn't been to church except for weddings and funerals in years. She was about as Christian as James was Jewish - and he ate moo-shu pork when they ordered Chinese. Nevertheless, she was feeling better.

"Well, they're a church," Wilson said. "It's what they do."

"Look, for the past couple of years, the world's been getting smaller. Eight months, six months..."

James looked down. He seemed almost ashamed, even though the one thing Grace had consistently always liked about him, from when he was Doctor Wilson till now, was that he never lied about her prognosis.

"I watch a trailer for a movie," Grace said gently, "and I think, 'am I going to be here when that comes out?' and maybe there is still a horizon out there. You know, maybe I can make plans for a year from now. Two years. I like the view."

"The view is a lie," James said "and if you believe it, you're going to crash so hard. Let me take new images of your liver." He lifted his head and looked her in the eyes.

"You can't accept that it could be true," Grace said.

"Well," James said, "if it is true, you shouldn't be afraid of proving it."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Grace was staying in overnight for "observation". She'd actually _asked_ him not to stay around. And for once, Wilson thought, he'd be taking Greg home with him for completely professional purposes.

He leashed Greg and led him down to his own car: Greg came along without any argument. Wilson sat him down on the couch and unclipped the leash.

"I took some images of Grace Palmeri's cancer."

Greg blinked at him, apparently confused. "Yeah...?"

Wilson sighed. He sat down beside Greg and opened up the envelope, handing Greg the clearest pair of scans. "Her tumor s shrunk."

"And you told my patient," Greg said, staring from one scan to the other. Grace had six months to live, in Wilson's professional assessment, but the second scan showed a patient with two years or more, if her tumor kept shrinking.

"No," Wilson said, annoyed. "I didn't tell him anything."

Greg put down the scans on the coffee table. He looked around the room, and looked back at Wilson. "You haven't been here in a while."

"I _live_ here," Wilson said.

"All the coffee mugs are clean," Greg said. "No dirty plates. No take-out cartons in the trash. This isn't the day your cleaning firm comes in. You didn't eat here last night, you didn't eat here this morning, pretty good guess you didn't sleep here either - " He looked at Wilson with pale, curious eyes - "and you're not planning to sleep here tonight, are you?"

"I ate out last night," Wilson said, making his voice amused, "and I ate breakfast at the diner we go to this morning. I've been trying to cut down on coffee."

"You're lying," Greg said. He was studying Wilson intently now. "You didn't talk to my patient - why would you? The only person he's been getting all intimate and conversational with is your cancer chick."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. Greg plunged on, his eyes fixed on Wilson's.

"No one who works at PPTH is allowed to tell the patients there's a doctor who's a slave. The oncology nurses gossip about you with the patients - but they don't tell the patients the hospital slave Doctor Wilson is screwing is also a doctor."

Wilson's jaw dropped open a little: he shut his mouth and shook his head, but before he could say anything, before he could think what to say, Greg's head was up, his eyes wide and bright, his voice certain and challenging.

"My patient knows I'm a slave. He's sure cancer chick is all better. He knows you're screwing me. Cancer chick could have told him she feels better, probably did, but he's only seen me wearing a roll-top, and 'Doctor House is a slave and I'm nailing his ass' is not the kind of thing that comes up in patient interviews."

"This is fun," Wilson said, "it's like password. Keep talking; I'll jump in when I get a clue what the hell you're talking about."

"No, that's the kind of thing you mention to someone you're sharing the intimate details of your day with. You've been having sex with our miracle woman." Unbelievably, Greg smiled. "You have a fetish for needy people. Half the doctors who specialize in oncology turn into burnt-out cases, but you - you _eat_ neediness. You're a functional vampire. I wondered why you were doing without that erotic kick you get out of having a crippled slave to fuck, but the sexual charge you can get off a dying patient - I'm surprised you haven't tried that before. Or have you? What's the investigation going to find?"

"Are you threatening me?" Wilson half-laughed: he was angry that Greg would even try this, but it was absurd. "Are you trying to threaten me?"

"You know what you're risking by sleeping with a patient," Greg said.

"Only if anyone found out," Wilson said. "No one will."

Greg stared at him, his eyes wide and blue. After a long silent moment, he said, "You don't just have a fetish for needy people, you marry them. You mean it, and then time passes and suddenly they're not so needy anymore. Your fault. You've been there for them too much. They're getting healthy, independent, and that's just ugly." He showed all his teeth. "_God_ you must be pissed at God right now for making her all happy. Most people in your situation just have their careers to worry about. You've got that and divine retribution."

"I think you think you're serious," Wilson said, keeping his voice amused. "You know what would happen to you?"

"I get whipped," Greg said. He lifted his chin, still with that shit-eating grin. "You lose your license. Going to be able to pay three lots of alimony without a doctor's income?"

"Don't go there," Wilson said. He could not believe Greg didn't hear the warning in his voice.

"I tell Cuddy, Cuddy has me whipped, but she'd investigate. And there you are."

"I'm seriously saying don't," Wilson said again. He looked away from Greg. The vivid idea of punishing Greg, _making_ him shut up - making it clear to him what would happen if he tried out this crazy idea -

"Tell me how it happened," Greg said.

Wilson stared at him. Greg wasn't grinning any more, he looked dead serious. He didn't think he could stop himself from fucking Greg if he punished him. He had told Grace things were over with the slave.

"Tell me how it happened, and I won't tell Cuddy," Greg repeated. He met Wilson's eyes. He was trembling a little, but his voice wasn't shaky.

Wilson stared back. He remembered an evening back when Greg was treating Stacy's husband, the last time Greg had visited his office voluntarily: Greg had looked at him with eyes like this and said, something about _I advocate for my patients - even when I can't do anything else_. Grace wasn't Greg's patient. Greg hadn't even met her.

Was Greg doing this really because he was concerned for _Grace's_ wellbeing?

Wilson opened his mouth and heard himself say "She'd had a bad day - pain-wise. Her ride didn't show up to take her home."

Greg nodded. "So you offered?"

"She didn't have any groceries. She was too sick to go out." Half a packet of stale pasta, an open jug of milk that smelled stale, a bag of hard fruit candies. Grace had said it didn't matter, she'd go to sleep, she'd go out tomorrow, and then she'd said nothing, just sat on the couch looking so tired and so ill. "I... figured I could afford... take a half hour and... pick her up a few things and..." It had been so easy to make Grace feel good. Whenever Wilson touched her he felt that he had to be immensely careful not to cause her pain, and this gave him a wonderful feeling - nothing like what he felt for Greg.

Nothing like it.

Greg was saying, looking at him carefully, "...and make sure she's okay."

"Yeah," Wilson said.

"And never leave." Greg looked as if was about to say something else, but Wilson's cellphone started to ring.

"Doctor Wilson," Foreman said. "We need Greg at the hospital. I need to give him a patient update now."

Wilson handed Greg his cellphone, and stood up, picking up the scans, glancing around. He'd go back to Grace's tonight.

"Jesus is spiking a fever," Greg said, handing the cellphone back. "He's delusional."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

The only one in the conference room with the glass walls was the Doctor Chase, sitting at the table, looking through files: he glanced up as Boyd came in, and nodded to the further door, as if he knew what Boyd had come for.

Boyd looked through the glass door. The slave was sitting in a comfortable chair, his legs propped up on an ottoman. He was wearing reading glasses and looking at a journal.

_Slaves, in all things obey those who are your masters on earth, not with external service, as those who merely please men, but with sincerity of heart, fearing the Lord._

Boyd hadn't told anyone God still spoke to him. They'd all been so sure - even Dad, in the end - that it was the tumors in his head. He had been about to open the door without knocking, but instead he lifted his hand and rapped quietly on the glass.

The slave looked up, slid his glasses off, and put the journal down. . Boyd pushed the door open.

"Come in," the slave said, uninvitingly, but Boyd shut the door behind him and moved a step or so further into the room.

"My father told me I have to apologize to you."

The slave lifted his chin and stared back at Boyd. Evidently he understood by that that Boyd hadn't told his father "Doctor House" was a slave, and that Boyd wasn't actually going to apologize to a chattel, because the next thing he said was phrased as a question "You still hearing voices?"

Boyd hesitated, but nodded. He had no idea why God kept talking to him about the slave, but he said what came to him to say: "You're lucky. You go through life with a certainty that what you're doing is right." He thought about it a moment, and added, not because God wanted him to say it but because it was true, "I know how comforting that is. Good luck."

He waited, but he heard nothing: and the slave just nodded, apparently waiting for him to go.

"I'm sorry," Boyd said finally. "For causing you all that trouble. For lying to you."

The slave shrugged. "Everybody lies."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Chase had no plans for the evening and there were a stack of patient files to sort through. He was wondering, with morbid curiosity, if Doctor Wilson was going to show up. He'd definitely taken Greg home with him the other night, but after he'd returned Greg to the Diagnostics department to work on the case, Chase wasn't sure that Wilson had taken him away again.

The door to the cubbyhole opened. Doctor House appeared. He walked over to the whiteboard: three points to God, two to House.

"You're not going to give me my final point?" House asked.

"You knew it was me?" Chase said, not really surprised.

"Who else?"

Chase smiled. He got up and walked over to the board, picking up one of the marker pens, and carefully marked a third point under HOUSE.

"You don't think God should get a point knocked off?"

"The tumor shrank," Chase pointed out.

"Because of a virus!"

"Do you know what the odds are?" Chase had tried to calculate them, just out of interest, and had got so far into the numbers he had to call them cosmic. "She had to have the right type of cancer; he had to have the right type of virus, the exposure had to be - "

"She won the lottery."

"You say won the lottery," Chase said. "He says miracle."

Greg looked at him and said "Yeah," in a quieter voice. Chase blinked. He wanted to glance over his shoulder, shake the conviction that Doctor Wilson must be standing in the doorway looking at them. Greg was hunched over his stick, and he looked as if keeping his head up was an effort. "The hand of God reached into this kid's pants," Greg said deliberately, "and made him have sex so he could scratch the rash, stick his fingers into some woman's face, give her a few extra months. Come on, he's just another liar and manipulator."

"Well," Wilson said from the doorway. Chase twitched. Greg was no longer watching him. "Nobody's as perfect as you are," Wilson said. "It is possible to believe in something and still fail to live up to it."

Wilson had a leash in his hand. Chase decided that he could deal with the other files tomorrow.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Chase left shortly after Wilson arrived, without saying anything, either to Greg or to Wilson.

Greg stood by the whiteboard, and looked at Wilson. Not at Wilson. His eyes were fixed on the leash. "So," he said at length, "how's your girlfriend?"

"She got a little extra time out of this. Not a lot." She'd feel better for a few months, and then she'd go under.

"She didn't crash," Greg said, not asked.

"No." Grace had surprised Wilson for the first time in their relationship. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. "She said she's happier when she believes in something bigger than she is."

"She still believes."

"Faith," Wilson agreed. It was surprising, how strong it could make some people. "She's going to Florence."

"Europe?" Greg asked.

"She's always wanted to go there. Trip of a lifetime. She's probably going to die there."

"Vedi Firenze e poi muori."

"What?" Wilson was startled again.

"Means I think I'll die if I don't have pizza," Greg said. "So she's already kicked you out?"

"No, I'm going to help her pack tonight, get her prescriptions sorted out tomorrow, and drive her to the airport Friday." Wilson clipped the leash on to Greg's collar. "But you still need to get fed."

Greg hung back a little, resisting the tug of the leash. "So you're taking me out for food and windowdressing, all ready for your hot weekend?"

Wilson turned towards the door, pulling Greg with him. "I don't think that trying to annoy me is a great idea." He glanced back at Greg. "Do you?"

**_tba_**

_Only four episodes to go to the end of Second Season. For a while I never thought we'd get there. If you liked, leave a review - if you have a question, I might answer it, if I can!  
_


	20. Euphoria

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee..._

**2.20 Euphoria**

Rodney had known the local paper was going to run a story on Eric, of course: someone on the paper had contacted him to ask if he had a recent photo of his son, to go with the yearbook photo that the high school had provided. He hadn't thought to ask why the paper wanted to run a story about Eric right now, because Alicia had been having a bad day and hadn't been quite sure who he was. Usually no matter where she was in her life she remembered him - they'd known each other since high school - but sometimes she thought he was his Dad, and got painfully polite and worried and didn't tell Rodney when she needed things.

The day the story was published, Rodney and Alicia had walked down to the local coffee shop. They knew Alicia there, and on most days, she was able to charm them like she'd been charming people for sixty years. Rodney had bought a copy of the paper on the way, and he was able to sit reading it while Alicia talked to the waitress about her mom.

There was Eric, looking very serious as he always did, and the paper talked about his prestigious fellowship with Doctor Gregory House, the founder of Diagnostics as a speciality, and Eric's getting published in a distinguished medical journal. Eric hadn't mentioned that when he called home, though he usually talked about his achievements - more easily than he talked about his personal life. Before Alicia started to get forgetful, she'd always been able to make Eric laugh and talk about who he was seeing, but Rodney admitted to himself he hadn't been much good at that.

He thought about writing Eric a letter, but he knew he'd never finish it, not with Alicia the way she was. Instead he carefully tore out the page with the story about Eric, picked up one of the free pens, and clicked it against his lips, watching Alicia, trying to remember that joke she'd made, years ago, when Eric was so proud of himself for getting into medical school. If Rodney had said it Eric would have sulked for weeks, but when Alicia said it Eric laughed. He remembered, and wrote on the margin of the paper _Our friend Lazarus sleeps, but I go that I may wake him up._

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Grace had left Wilson in the end with scarcely a backward look as she boarded the plane to Tuscany. Wilson walked out to his car, and without thinking much about it, drove back to the hospital.

It was well after seven in the evening. All three of the Diagnostics fellows were gone. Wilson hadn't been paying attention to Greg's clinic hours recently, but the free clinic didn't look too busy when he passed it: even if Greg was working there, he'd be done when the clinic shut down at eight, they weren't doing late hours tonight.

Greg was in his cubbyhole at the back of the Diagnostics room. He was in his bunk, the central light turned down dimly, but he wasn't asleep when Wilson walked in.

"You're coming back with me."

Greg opened his mouth, and Wilson jabbed a finger at him. "I don't need to hear _anything_ you have to say. Just shut up and do as you're told for once."

Greg closed his mouth, sank back on the bunk for a moment, and then sat up. He was naked under the covers.

"Get up and get dressed," Wilson ordered him. He waited, arms folded, while Greg obeyed, silently. When Greg was dressed, Wilson cuffed his hands in front of him, and clipped the leash on to his collar.

Once home, Wilson walked Greg through to the couch in the living room and pushed him over the arm. Greg went down with a grunt, clutching at the cushions, but he stayed there, his head down. Wilson didn't take the cuffs off.

"You have to learn I'm not going to hurt you," Wilson told him. He let his impatience show in his voice. "I'm tired of you acting like I'm some kind of ogre. Stay where you are."

He hadn't slept in his apartment in weeks. He had been back, of course, to pick up clothes and mail. Grace had never been here. He'd never see her again. Between one step and the next he missed her, so much he could have wept, and he couldn't talk to anyone about her.

When he came back with the bag he'd left in the corner of the closet, Greg had moved - not from where Wilson had put him, just shifted position, probably so that his weight was more comfortable for his bad leg. Wilson commented on it, keeping his voice stern, adding "That's okay. I want you to be able to hold position. Now just relax."

The first dildo was smaller than Wilson's erect cock, both in length and girth. Greg would be able to take it without difficulty, but it was still long and wide enough to massage his prostate - Wilson was looking forward to seeing Greg get excited with this inside him. Talking gently, Wilson pulled Greg's jeans and underwear down. Greg's butt was marked with two red lines - he'd been caned. Wilson sucked in his breath, unable to resist tracing one line with his finger. He wondered how often Greg had been hiding this from him before. He should insist on knowing if Greg had got caned.

Wilson lubed up the dildo and gently breached Greg's anus with it, soothing Greg with his free hand. He slid it in, delighted with how Greg twitched and even moaned a little. The storekeeper had warned him he would need to use a harness to keep this dildo in: Wilson fastened it round Greg's waist and made sure it was tight but comfortable. He helped Greg to his feet, but as Greg made no effort to support himself, he got him to sit down again, bareass on the couch. The dildo must have shifted inside him with the movement: Greg's eyes went wide and his mouth opened, an odd keening noise came out. Wilson grinned. He left Greg sitting there to get used to it. His jeans tangled round his ankles, just wearing a t-shirt really, he was making no effort to hide his genitals from Wilson's glance, and it was clear he was getting hard.

"I'll make supper." Wilson had got a sandwich in the airport, and Greg had presumably eaten his evening meal in the slave canteen, but he could put together quesadillas in about twenty minutes, and he'd enjoy feeding Greg a treat. He had one more item that he planned to use - it had come by mail last week, it would take Greg completely by surprise.

The hood was shaped to fit Greg's head. Wilson slid it over Greg's eyes from behind and tugged it down, cutting out vision: before he fastened the clips that would cut off virtually all sound to Greg's ears, he bent and whispered "Trust me: I'm _not_ going to hurt you."

The technique for giving a slave medication was to tap them at a specific point on the jaw and their mouth would just fall open. Wilson had already noticed this worked perfectly with Greg. And the slave was quite cooperative, hooded: none of the skittishness that marred so many of Wilson's interactions with the slave.

At first Wilson simply enjoyed it. Greg let himself be tugged into position, where Wilson could pet him and feed him pieces of quesadilla, and as Wilson had expected, the dildo up his ass made him squirm and lift his hips involuntarily, his arousal obvious. Greg didn't protest, didn't try to talk at all: no sarcasm, no insults, nothing annoying or presumptuous... nothing.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Without Greg the free clinic couldn't function. Brenda Previn was well aware of that, and so, she knew, was Greg. Since Lisa Cuddy became Dean and ruled that every doctor, including department heads, had to volunteer two clinic hours a month, the clinic could make shift to do without Greg when necessary, but it was an irritant that it was necessary - when he claimed Diagnostics work didn't allow him to complete his clinic hours, or when some kind of really appalling misbehavior got him a whipping.

There were three ways Greg caused the clinic trouble, besides his Diagnostic work and the whippings: the one most easily dealt with was his occasional rudeness to stupid patients. Once or twice a month, a patient would complain, and Brenda would have to set up an apology. Greg was sometimes stubborn about saying sorry in a contrite enough fashion to satisfy the patient (who usually _was_ an idiot) and Brenda had learned that the simplest method of resolving this was to send him to the head overseer to be caned for insolence. A caning didn't put him out of action like a whipping, and Greg was always quite contrite afterwards: often just the threat was enough, but it had to be carried through if Greg stayed stubborn.

The second way wasn't exactly Greg's fault. All the medical staff knew Greg was a slave and knew the rules about calling him "Doctor House" in front of patients, but every so often some new resident thought it was funny to send the slave "doctor" on time-wasting errands or give him some rough handling for insolence. Greg ought to report this when it happened, but he was foolishly stubborn: Brenda had to keep an eye on new clinic volunteers to make sure they had the right attitude.

The third way Greg caused trouble was this: he showed up not fit for work. Sometimes he seemed to be putting on a wilful blindness, with a bruise decorating his face or his nose streaming with hay fever: he must know no patient would want to see a doctor in that state. But sometimes, like this morning, he really was quite evidently unaware that he couldn't work.

He stood in the clinic reception area, wearing his rolltop and white coat as required, his eyes empty, his hands behind his back - even with his collar concealed, Brenda thought, you could _tell_ he was a slave when he got like this.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Every other department head in the hospital had a personal assistant to deal with routine mail. Greg - _Doctor House_ - didn't because what else did he have to do with his time when he wasn't running DDX or working in the clinic? Cameron didn't need to ask Doctor Cuddy why Greg didn't have an assistant: but she wondered if she could ask him why Diagnostics didn't have a clerical worker assigned, since Greg wasn't allowed to use a PC any more.

Cameron had done a lot of the really routine email before, because it was like knitting, only less constructive. Now she and Chase and Foreman were supposed to do it all.

Foreman was desultorily doing some email, with an air of it being beneath him, and a page from a local newspaper casually on the table beside him. He obviously wanted to be asked. Cameron ignored him. She had seen the sub-header when she came in, and she knew what the story was about.

Chase came in. He looked over Cameron's shoulder, shrugged disinterest, and reached for Foreman's paper. He looked at it with an odd expression. "Aww, its sweet, your dad's proud you made the local paper."

"With my article," Cameron couldn't help saying.

She wished she hadn't when Foreman said with amused contempt, "Give it a rest!" and to Chase "You read what he wrote in the margin?" He didn't pause for Chase to read it - though he did, and laughed - "Yeah, he's not proud of me, he's proud of Jesus. Everything I do right is God's work, everything I do wrong is my own damn fault."

Cameron had noticed Nurse Previn and Greg walking along the hall: it wasn't often they saw Previn away from the free clinic. The door opening abruptly seemed to startle both Foreman and Chase. Previn was gripping Greg by the wrist, holding his cane in her free hand. Greg was walking with a lurch, head bowed: he didn't look up as she steered him into the diagnostics room, but stopped, eyes downcast, looking more like a slave than Cameron had ever seen him.

Previn put down a set of patient files on the table. "A policeman with a sense of humor," she said. "He's in ER, bleeding from a gunshot wound to the head, coughing, and laughing. Differential diagnosis." She looked at Cameron. "Where does Doctor House stand during a differential?"

Cameron got up, bewildered. She pointed at the whiteboard. "He usually stands over there."

Previn nodded. She took hold of Greg's wrist again and tugged him, moving him into position.

"Wait," Foreman said. "Who assigned this case to Diagnostics?"

"I did," Previn said. She walked Greg round the table, found one of the marker pens, fitted it into Greg's hand. "Doctor House, differential diagnosis," she said crisply, and stepped back.

"What's wrong with him?" Cameron asked.

Chase said "I'm thinking trauma; he's got bullet fragments lodged in his brain."

Bewildered, Cameron looked back at the table, where Chase had sat down and was looking through the top file. Foreman was still standing indignantly by the table. "You're assigning us this - a gunshot wound and drugs?"

"He's a cop," Chase said.

"Good point. Drugs."

"Tox screen was clean," Previn said.

Foreman took a long look at Greg. He sat down and reached for the second file, flipping it open and glancing at it. "According to Babyshoes, the cop was laughing before he got shot."

"Babyshoes?" Cameron asked.

"The guy who shot him."

Cameron opened the third file, with the X-ray and CT scan films. She switched on the light-board. Greg was still standing by the whiteboard, head down, clutching the marker pen.

"This is not a diagnostics case," Foreman told Previn.

Cameron had never touched Greg before. She put her hand gently under his chin - stubbled, rough - and lifted his head, to look in his eyes. His pupils were normal for the time of day - he would have got his oxycontin shot an hour ago - and reactive: his eyes flicked back and forth, lids trembling. He didn't say anything to her, but his head stayed up when she took her hand away. His skin was cold. "He's in shock. Why are we running a DDX?"

Chase got up and put the X-ray and CT scan film up on the lightboard. He glanced at Greg, then at Cameron. "What do you see?" he asked.

Foreman said "The fragments are in the wrong part of the brain to cause euphoria."

Cameron looked. "Cloudy lungs. He's coughing."

"Why are we ignoring the elevated heart rate?" Chase asked.

"Because he's in shock," Cameron said automatically. She wondered what Greg's pulse rate was. Head up, he was looking in the direction of the lightboard.

"What if the heart was already fast before he got shot?" Chase asked.

"You mean after the footrace?" Foreman sounded as if he were getting interested despite himself.

"He's giddy," Chase said, "indicates a blockage of oxygen. Carbon monoxide gas would elevate the heart rate, cause coughing and impair neurological function."

Now that was stupid. Cameron said "He got carbon monoxide poisoning _outdoors?_"

"Or he got carbon monoxide poisoning indoors," Chase said, "and then moved outdoors before he d inhaled enough to make him drop dead."

"Test his arterial blood gas," Greg said, tonelessly. He was still staring at the lightboard.

"For what?" Chase asked.

"If his carboxyhemoglobin levels are higher than 15% stick him in a hyperbaric chamber," Greg said. He still didn't sound like House. His gaze shifted from the light-board: he looked round the Diagnostics room, looking bewildered, and clutched at the top of the whiteboard, dropping the marker. "Check the car for gas leaks."

"If it was the cop car, his partner would be sick," Foreman said.

"Also check his personal car, his work, home." Greg looked from face to face. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"I'll go check his blood," Cameron said. "Doctor House, are you all right?"

"I'll check the precinct and the car," Chase said, hurriedly getting up.

"Fine," Foreman said. "I'll check his home." He headed for the door.

Nurse Previn handed Greg his cane. He took it, looking at her strangely. Cameron hesitated, and Previn waved her off. "You have a patient, Doctor Cameron."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Foreman met Chase on the way back in.

"Cop's acting high because he is high," he told Chase.

"He's got Legionnaires disease," Chase told him. "He sits right by an infected ventilator."

The elevator doors closed. Chase hit the fourth-floor button.

"Cop's got a pot farm in his apartment," Foreman said, disgusted. He lifted the trash bag full of samples. "And he lives in a pigpen."

"Tox screen was clean," Chase said. "Cameron got him time in a hyperbaric chamber - he had slight carbon monoxide poisoning. Didn't help his other symptoms."

Chase turned down the hall towards Diagnostics. Foreman pointed. "Cop's that way. I'm going to run another tox screen."

"House is this way," Chase said over his shoulder. With an annoyed shrug, Foreman followed. Doctor Wilson's door was shut. Foreman glanced at it as he went past. "How much longer do you think Greg's going to last?" he asked.

"Longer than you think," Chase said, briefly and very quietly.

House had written the cop's symptoms on the whiteboard. He had taken off the white coat and rolltop he wore in the clinic, and he was walking from side to side of the Diagnostics room, as he did on days when his leg pain was bad, but when he looked at them as they came into the room, he was clearly House, not Greg.

"Legionnaires' disease," House said. "It's a good thing Joe got shot; the whole precinct would have got wiped out. Anarchy on the streets - "

"It takes 48 hours to test for Legionnaires," Foreman objected.

"And only two seconds to recognize that the symptoms fit while staring at the rancid unchanged water of an AC unit. I knew there was a reason I didn't fire you," House added to Chase.

"Marijuana explains the high carboxy, the cloudy lungs, and the happiness," Foreman pointed out. Chase was looking altogether too pleased with himself.

"Pot doesn't explain the fact that he s gotten worse since he was admitted. Why don't we agree to disagree." House grinned showing all of his teeth. "Actually, why don t we agree that you'll disagree with me while treating him for Legionnaires? It's not as pithy, but..." He waved at the door. "Oh, and take your lunch with you. Nurse Previn left me a sandwich."

"Samples from Joe's apartment," Foreman said, lifting the bag. "I'm going to take this to the lab."

"Knock yourself out," House said, pleasantly.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Chase had never seen Greg like that. Not quite like that. Not completely out of it.

There was no way he was going to step in between Doctor Wilson and Greg.

But he was pretty sure that Nurse Previn was going to. She was head of the free clinic, she'd been at the hospital a lot longer than Doctor Wilson, and she was an American citizen with no work visa problems. She could do it.

Anyway, Wilson let Greg alone when they had a case. House had slept in his office last night, taken a sweet roll from the box Chase brought in for breakfast, and gone off to do his clinic hours, all like normal.

Chase and Cameron ran a second CT scan of Joe's lungs. Foreman was checking that the Legionnaires treatment had worked. Chase heard Joe say "In my experience people who just don't like cops have a reason."

"I need you not to talk," Foreman said, quite professionally given that he was trying to listen to Joe s breathing. He looked up and nodded at them. "No rouls."

Chase put the CT scans, yesterday's and today's, up where Joe could see them. "These clouded areas of the upper lobes, they're the infiltrates we found yesterday."

"Not there any more?" Joe asked.

"Clearing up. You had Legionnaires, now you don't."

Joe looked guilty. Or maybe just awkward. But Chase would have bet on guilty. He wasn't quite meeting anybody's eyes. "So you didn't, uh, you didn't find anything at my place?"

"Nothing medically relevant," Foreman said.

"So there's uh, nothing I need to worry about then." Joe was quite definitely avoiding looking at all three of them. Foreman moved into the line of his gaze. "Not this time."

Most people who go blind in hospital say so immediately - and loudly. But Joe really wasn't looking at Foreman. And it didn't look like it was on purpose.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

The interview with Cuddy on Monday morning hadn't been pleasant. The weekend hadn't been much fun, though it had gotten off to an unexpectedly good start: Greg had sulked, steadily and consistently, eating when Wilson made him, obeying orders when Wilson shoved him into position, and speaking not one word.

He had still been keeping up the sulk when Wilson delivered him to the clinic on Monday morning, and infuriatingly, according to Cuddy, he'd kept it up consistently enough to convince Brenda Previn that he shouldn't do his clinic duty: she'd found him a Diagnostics patient and taken him back to the department.

Wilson was listening with indignation to Cuddy explain this, when Cuddy abruptly rapped on her desk. "Doctor Wilson, this is serious. I don't want to charge you with vandalism."

"Vandalism?" Wilson was really annoyed. "I took Greg home for the weekend, made sure he ate and slept properly, and returned him to the hospital in good time on Monday morning. I did not commit _any_ act of vandalism."

"Brenda was convinced it was a true fugue state, brought on by something you'd done to him over the weekend. She thinks you ought to be indicted for vandalism. We take a zero tolerance policy towards employees of the hospital vandalising Greg."

Wilson's honest confusion and indignation seemed to have disconcerted Cuddy, but she'd banned Wilson from taking Greg home with him - "For now - he has a case, anyway" and told him she'd be reconsidering his tag. It was ridiculous that Greg could put Wilson in this position just by sulking, and Wilson had ignored him all day Monday. Before Wilson had tagged him, Greg had been subject to sexual abuse from anyone who caught him, and he hadn't even got regular meals or a consistent approach to his painkillers.

But he was the property of the hospital, not Wilson's, and of course the hospital could decide to remove Wilson's tag.

On Tuesday Wilson decided to relent. He bought a brown-bag lunch at the canteen, and after he'd eaten his own lunch, bought a latte to take upstairs to Diagnostics. He was annoyed to find that all three fellows were in the conference room, but Greg was clearly not sulking. Wilson walked in.

" - really thinks he can see," Chase was saying.

"He can physically see," Foreman said. "his brain just can't process it."

Greg looked at Wilson, then away again. His voice was neutral. "No chance this is a practical joke?

"No way," Foreman said. "Anton's blindness indicates damage to both occipital lobes."

"Must be from the trauma." Cameron had looked up and seen Wilson. She glared. Foreman followed her look, and glanced away, face expressionless. Chase was sitting with his back to Wilson, and he didn't move or speak.

"Bullet fragments just happened to hit the same spot in both lobes? Stroke could cause Anton s blindness and euphoria." Greg looked away from Wilson, quite deliberately, and said to his fellows, "Officer Krupke is clotting in his brain, start heparin to thin the blood, find the clot and yank it out."

"The clot would be at the top of the bilateral vertebral arteries," Foreman said.

"Great! Chase, stick your fingers in there, and grope around until you find it." Greg grinned, showing all of his teeth. "Oh wait! When you turn him into a vegetable then there s going to be frivolous lawsuits. You know what would be better? Contrast MRI. Do we have one of those?"

"We can't do an MRI," Chase said. "If the bullet fragments are magnetic, they'll move and rip his brain apart."

"Well, let's flip a coin," Greg said. "heads MRI, tails he dies."

"Police issued Kevlar vests don't have the ceramic plate insert that would shatter a bullet, they would just catch it. So the bullet shattered on its own, meaning Babyshoes was using .38 caliber hollow points, which unfortunately are ferromagnetic."

Wilson was quite impressed. The grin on Greg's face was practically a smirk. "It's just so cool that you know that!"

"We could do an angio to find the clotting," Cameron suggested.

"Waste of time," Greg dismissed it. "The skull creates too much artifact; we'll never get a decent view."

"Next best thing to an MRI," Chase said.

"And a waste of time," Greg repeated.

"An angio might show..." Foreman said.

"Oh God," Greg said "it's a coup! Fine go do your angio, when you re done wasting your time come meet me down in the clinic."

All of the fellows were getting to their feet. Wilson smiled a little. Greg stepped in between Cameron and Foreman, jostling them both a little, and walked out of the Diagnostics room in the middle of the cluster of his fellows, leaving Wilson turning to look, startled: the four of them were heading for the elevators, and Wilson was left with a spare lunch.

Greg was evidently still sulky. Wilson left him the bag lunch anyway.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

If it was epilepsy, Esther Crawford was not going to have their family doctor know about it until she had decided what to do.

"The seizures only seem to happen when she's in her car seat," she told the doctor. "She starts to rock and grunt." It was horribly disconcerting. Emma was a lovely child, if a little slow.

"She responsive?" the doctor asked, as Esther had expected.

"No, no, it s like she's in a zone. And her abdominal muscles become dystonic."

"Big word. Someone's been on the interweb."

Of course, doctors did hate it when people did some research on their own. They liked to be in control of the information. But Esther wasn't going to be bluffed. "I looked up a few articles on epilepsy," she told him, and moved on to tell him about the youth soccer leagues for epileptic children. She'd need a note from a doctor to get her into one. "I think it might explain why she's been having a hard time in pre-school."

The doctor gave her an odd look. "Well, let's confirm your diagnosis before you have her held back. Strobing lights and high pitched sounds can provoke a seizure." He reached for a flashlight and pointed it into Emma's eyes, switching it on and off quickly, but surely not strobing. "_Woooooooooooooooooooooooooo!_"

Emma laughed. "You re a goof!"

The doctor grinned at her. "Takes one to know one, loser! Wait, that means I m a loser. Scratch that." He looked back at Esther. "These episodes, she gets sweaty afterwards?"

Esther nodded. "Soaking wet."

"She seem upset by them or just tired?"

"No," Esther admitted, "she kind of thinks it s funny."

"You mix rocking, grunting, sweating, and dystonia with concerned parents and you get an amateur diagnosis of epilepsy. In actuality, all your little girl is doing is saying 'yoo hoo' to the hoo-hoo."

_Not_ epilepsy? Esther had braced herself for that, and the feeling of relief was so intense it almost was like disappointment. "She's what?"

"Marching the penguin," the doctor said, eyeing her. "Ya-ya-ing the sisterhood. Finding Nemo."

Emma laughed again. "That was funny."

"It's called gratification disorder," the doctor said. "Sort of a misnomer - if one was unable to gratify oneself... that would be a disorder." He sounded almost grim.

It finally sank in what he meant. Emma was _masturbating_. Esther instinctively put her hands over Emma's ears and asked.

The doctor made a funny face. "I was trying to be discreet - there s a child in the room!"

Esther swallowed. "This is horrifying," she said in a thin voice. All those times - her little girl -

"Epilepsy is horrifying," the doctor said dryly. "Teach your girl about privacy and she'll be fine." He handed Emma a red lollipop. "Here you go."

"Thank you," Emma said politely. She lifted her hand as she did to her uncle, and the doctor gave her a high-five. He looked immensely amused.

"This isn't funny," Esther said thinly. She hadn't paid attention to his name when he introduced himself, and he wasn't wearing a name tag. "This really isn't funny. doctor..."

"Nemo," the doctor said. He grinned at her. He looked as if he'd figured she didn't know his name.

Esther got herself and Emma out of the room. She marched over to the nurse working the reception desk. "I want to report a doctor," she said tightly.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Cameron went down to the clinic to find House. He wasn't there. Nor was Brenda Previn. The nurse on duty told her "He's in the basement, Doctor Cameron."

The morgue was in the basement. Cameron took the elevator. The morgue attendant hadn't seen a doctor all day. Back up at the clinic, she found Brenda Previn at last. "I'm looking for Doctor House."

"He's in exam room one," Previn said.

"I was told he was in the basement." Cameron was annoyed. This was not a good time for House to decide he needed a shave and a haircut.

"He was," Previn said. "He's back now. You can have him as soon as he's done apologizing to a patient. Make sure he doesn't go anywhere between here and Diagnostics."

Chase and Foreman had been sitting around in Diagnostics for some time: Foreman had a lazy grin on his face. He'd been abusing the cop earlier while they did the angio, and Cameron thought he ought to be off the case. Chase had put the angio images up on the light-board.

House had been silent all the way up in the elevator, but as soon as he saw Foreman, he asked about the angio.

"What kept you?" Chase asked.

"I called my mom, we talked about you. What did the angio tell us?"

"That Foreman should be off this case," Cameron said tartly. She'd seen the angio images too.

"He's a neurologist, unless you think the patient's optic nerve is in his spleen."

"He doesn't like cops," Cameron said.

"Foreman," House said, as if patiently, "policemen are our friends. If you and I are ever separated shopping..."

"I was just busting the guy s chops," Foreman said. His grin got broader. Cameron hadn't seen him look this cheerful in a long time.

House gave him a long, thoughtful look. "Medically, what did the angio tell us?"

Chase glanced at Foreman, but Foreman didn't answer. "There appears to be some clotting," Chase said, "possibly around the Circle of Willis. Based on the progression of symptoms, the clot is growing. We need to cut into - "

"Saying there appears to be clotting is like saying there appears to be a traffic jam up ahead. Is it a ten-car pileup? Or just a really slow bus in the center lane, and if it is a bus is it a thrombotic bus, or an embolic bus? Think I pushed that metaphor too far."

Foreman chuckled. "Angio can t tell us that information."

"Oh, so you re saying it was just a waste of time?" House reacted.

"It gave us some information, without killing him.

"You don't know that an MRI will kill him!"

"The bullets have a ferrous base!" Foreman chuckled again. "You stick him in an MRI, he dies!"

House looked at Cameron. "How unprofessional was Foreman?"

"Ask him yourself, he s right here." Foreman waved his arms.

Cameron was annoyed. "Worse than usual, better than you. He berated Joe for being a bad cop."

"Berated or humiliated?" House asked.

"I'm not sure. I didn t have my thesaurus with me."

"One implies he took pleasure in it." House stared at Foreman. "I want to know if it was repressed black anger, or just giddiness."

"Whoa!" Foreman laughed. "You think I m sick?" He shook his head. "Is doing nothing an option? I'm just saying, maybe the clot will break up on its own; the giddiness seems to have gone away."

"The blindness hasn't," Cameron pointed out.

"Echo his heart," House said finally.

"Looking for what?" Chase asked. "The problem is obviously neurological."

"Clots are in his brain," House said. "The source of the clots may not be. Do a complete transthoracic echocardiogram, maybe we get lucky, maybe the clots are coming from his heart. I'll come with you."

The room felt crowded with four of them in it plus the patient on the table. Cameron thought House might have wanted to avoid being left alone in Diagnostics after Wilson had come by earlier, but she noticed that House was watching Foreman carefully. He didnt seem too different to normal to her.

"Heart's clean," Chase announced.

"Where else can we look?" Cameron asked.

"We could ultrasound his legs, look for a DVT."

The patient started to have a seizure. Tachycardia, heart rate 150 and rising. Then blood started to pour out of the wounds on his face. He was bleeding out.

Chase and Cameron both reacted: Foreman was studying his nails. Cameron was checking the patient's blood pressure numbers when Foreman said very sarcastically "House wanted to thin his blood, sure did a good job!"

The blood pressure was crashing so fast the patient was going into shock. Cameron heard Chase say "Intracranial bleeding, we need to relieve the pressure!"

"We need a surgical team," Cameron said. Foreman hadn't moved to help and was now laughing out loud. "Foreman, get out!"

"Boy, is he screwed!" Foreman actually laughed as he spoke. "We clot his blood... he dies. We thin it... he dies! Am I the only one to find this funny?"

House was speaking on the internal phone. "HAZMAT team," Cameron heard him say.

"Oh man!" Foreman said, laughing.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

The decontamination room was ugly and bare. The twist in the cop's fate still struck Foreman as funny, but laughing had got him in here - on a slave's word. That wasn't funny at all.

They'd _stripped_ him, the team in HAZMAT suits, like a slave, before they pushed him in here. Two beds. The corrupt cop was in the second bed. And the slave was standing outside the decontam room, watching him.

"I'm not sick!" Foreman protested. He overrode the slave. "Someone laughs, they're dying? That's absurd!"

"But not funny," the slave said.

"If I'm not sick, all you re doing is locking me up with the source, I'll get sick, prove you right."

"If you're not sick," the slave said, "it's not contagious; you ve got nothing to worry about. If you are sick, the two of you are staying in here until we find out why. So you might want to make friends with the pig."

That was funny. Foreman laughed.

"The good news is I can finally get my MRI."

Foreman laughed again. "Going to let me out of here?"

"PPTH got a portable one, chuckles. Chase and Cameron are bringing it to scan your non-bullet riddled head." The slave turned away.

"Where... Where you going?" Foreman asked.

"To the office," the slave said. "Got work to do. Eat your meals, take your temperature every half hour, and any meds I command you to take."

"So I'm just a regular patient now?" Foreman leaned against the glass. He wanted out of here. There was a pile of folded clothing on the first bed, the one he was supposed to be in. He didn't want to accept it.

"No," the slave said. He grinned at Foreman, fished in his pocket. "You get your own thermometer!" He slid it through the communication window. Foreman picked it up. Somehow, that struck him as funny. He giggled. He had his own thermometer.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Chase had inserted an Ommaya reservoir in the skull of dying cancer patients before: for an intensivist with surgical training, it was standard pallative care. Foreman wasn't blind (yet) and he wasn't laughing any more. Their first patient was blind and seizing. This didn't look like staph to Chase.

"Do you really think he has staph infection?"

"You go in and insert the Ommaya," House said. "Foreman's got a temperature of 101.6 and the MRI shows a soft spot which could by now be an abscess."

"Foreman wants it to be staph," Cameron said. Chase nodded. If it was a staph infection, even one limited to the brain, it was curable.

"Sure," House agreed. "So we've got his consent to drill a hole in his skull. And while you're inserting the Ommaya reservoir, I get a brain biopsy."

Chase looked at Cameron. Right then, he'd have welcomed Foreman exploding that this was crazy.

"Oh, and by the way: anyone tells Cuddy _or_ Wilson about this, they're fired." House gave them both the kind of grin that showed all of his teeth.

"What's your excuse going to be for being there?" Cameron demanded.

"My neurologist is having surgery," House said, this time completely straight-faced. "Why wouldn't I be there?"

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

The phone call had come early Wednesday evening: Eric was sick, very sick. Rodney called Ted. "Sure," Ted told him, once Rodney had managed to explain. "We'll come over."

Charlene and Alicia had been friends since forever. Charlene had always said, you need anything, you call me. They'd done this before, once, when Rodney had had to be away overnight, and it had worked about as well as anything could. Alicia mostly remembered who Charlene was, and Ted didn't scare her.

Rodney hadn't visited New Jersey before. The hospital impressed him, it was big and bright and modern. When he told the reception desk he was Eric Foreman's father, come visit him, the lady told him kindly that he was in isolation.

This hall didn't look too bright. There were voices down the hall, Eric's, arguing with someone.

"I don t care! I can handle the pain of the - " Something. Eric sounded muffled.

Another voice, a stranger's, much clearer. "Think you can handle a life without a pancreas? We keep you on these meds, you'll spend the last four hours of your life being able to see. Take you off, you'll go blind again, but it'll give us time to figure out what's eating your brain."

That sounded like a devil's bargain to Rodney. He swallowed, sent up a small prayer to the Lord, and walked on: they were round the next corner.

"Fine," Eric said, sounding savage. "What do we do next?"

"Eric?" Rodney called.

"Dad?" Eric sounded disbelieving.

The stranger was a white man, wearing a roll-top, leaning on a cane. Eric was in a cell with two beds, one empty. The cell's walls were heavy glass.

"Yeah," the white man said, "you two can get caught up later. Sir, I need you to come with me." He headed down the hall, limping heavily. Rodney glanced at Eric, who shook his head, and followed the lame man. Judging by Eric's descriptions, this was Doctor House.

Rodney would have assumed the call was made by the Dean of Medicine, but the caller had been a man, and the Dean was a woman. And she didn't know Rodney was coming. In fact, she didn't seem aware that Rodney had arrived because the hospital had called him. It didn't matter: Rodney was relieved to be there while his son was going through this. But he now guessed, judging from what Eric had said about him, that the caller had been Doctor House. There had been another patient with the same thing Eric had, and that patient had died, and an autopsy might find out what he'd died of and so let them cure Eric. But, as the Dean explained, there was a public health issue; the autopsy had to be performed by the CDC under strictly controlled conditions, and less than twenty-four hours later, the CDC had not yet arrived even to collect the corpse, which was in the morgue under lock and key.

So Rodney went back to visit with Eric, which was what he had come for. They'd never been good at talking much, but Rodney had sat with enough sick people to know that it was worth it just to have someone _there_. Anyway Eric could always lecture him on medicine.

"...the infection has moved to the primary motor cortex, which controls the muscles. Aren t you glad you sent me to med school?"

"Does it hurt?" Rodney asked. Eric's hand was jerking - it wasn't hard to believe he wasn't moving it himself.

"No."

"Is it going to?" Rodney asked.

Eric looked him straight in the eyes, and Rodney could tell even through glass that he was lying. "It - the other guy, he didn t seem to suffer too much, he... he just went into sleep."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

On Thursday, Wilson noticed Greg wasn't in Diagnostics. He wasn't in the clinic - Wilson checked with a phone call. Foreman was still in the decontamination unit. The CDC had still not yet arrived to collect the dead body of the first patient.

It didn't take long for Wilson to work out where Greg must have gone. It wouldn't take long for Doctor Cuddy to work it out either, if security reported that the Diagnostics slave had gone missing.

Wilson went down to the morgue. There was a guard posted outside. Down the hall, just out of the guard's sight, beyond the basement washroom (just one, stained concrete and tile, big sink with hand sanitisers) he found Greg.

Greg, leaning propped up against the wall, looked at him without fear. "You're not allowed to take me home. I have a case."

"what do you think you're doing down here?"

"They've got the cop s body in a locked, airtight bag."

"And a guard on the door," Wilson agreed. "Those feds are seriously paranoid."

"He hasn t gotten up to pee in hours, he's due," Greg said.

Wilson meant it as a joke. "You haven't sprinkled Senokot granules on his donut, his bowels would open up like the Red Sea."

Greg shrugged. "He wouldn't eat the donut."

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. Now he wasn't sure if Greg was joking or not. "Have you seriously been down here for hours?"

"No," Greg said. "I had to pee a couple times."

"You know," Wilson said, as sympathetically as he reasonably could, "Foreman was doing his job. I know you don't like him, but it wasn't your fault he got infected."

"How many of your guys have caught cancer from their patients?" Greg leaned forward. He was still keeping his voice low. "Let me know when that happens. Then we can have this conversation. I'll bet you can even have unprotected sex with your cancer patients without even catching a damn thing." Greg showed his teeth. "Boy, I wish I had your job."

Wilson snapped, not bothering to keep his voice down, "Wasting your time in a basement plotting the overthrow of a government agency?"

"The only thing I can do is think. You can pretty much do that anywhere. As long as no one s bugging me." Greg had also forgotten to keep his voice down. The guard hadn't moved from his position in front of the morgue door, but he turned his head and was staring in their direction.

Greg pushed himself away from the wall and walked away, leaning heavily on his cane.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Cuddy's secretary appeared. "The Diagnostics slave wants to see you... do I send him in?"

"Yes," Cuddy said. She could guess what this was about. Greg had been pre-occupied with this case involving Joe Luria and now one of his fellows, but he'd want to know what his status was with Wilson. "I can spare him five minutes," she added.

Greg limped over to her desk and knelt down and said "I need a bone saw."

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said, startled into a genuine apology. Greg wanted to do an autopsy, to try to save his fellow, and she couldn't allow it. "I wish I could - "

"I just want a little tiny slice of this guy's brain," Greg said. "That's all I need, just enough to tell me what's killing Foreman."

"A thin slice of Luria s brain could also cause a public health crisis."

"It's not a good idea to scream 'fire' every time someone lights a match."

"Don't downplay this, Greg." Cuddy was annoyed. Rodney Foreman had come to visit his son, and had put a very human face on the situation, but she had to consider the public health issue, not only the life of her employee. "You put both of them in isolation for a reason. Joe s death elevates the situation to a biosafety level 3."

Greg mimed a shiver. "Oooh. Level 3. We should activate the Batsignal."

"I called the CDC." They'd sent a deputy US Marshal to stand guard outside the morgue, and instructed her to keep the body sealed.

"Well, tell them we'll be really, really careful."

Cuddy shook her head. "We don't have the proper equipment for you to be really, really careful. You can do whatever tests you can on Foreman but the CDC will do this autopsy. They'll collect the body tomorrow morning."

"Whatever." Greg didn't move from his knees. His eyes were fixed on hers. "The point is, we'll be lucky to get results in three days."

"I told them how urgent this is - "

Greg_ interrupted_ her. " - and they told you - "

"We'll have the results in ...three days."

"Ah, that's a shame, because Foreman will never get a chance to know what it was, because he ll be dead in 36 hours. Maybe this is a toxin; maybe it s not contagious at all. You re killing Foreman because of a 'maybe.'"

Her secretary opened the door. "Doctor Cuddy?"

Greg got to his feet with a struggle. "Five minutes? I was expecting less."

"You have thirty-six hours to figure out which one it is," Cuddy told him. "You can go. Weren't you going to ask about Doctor Wilson?"

Greg looked back. "I don't have time."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Rodney had gone to the hospital chapel. He would go back to sit with Eric when the doctors had finished running their tests. He knew that God could hear his prayers anywhere, but it comforted him to sit in the chapel.

The chapel was empty. The white doctor, "Doctor House", didn't come in as if he wanted to pray. He sat down beside Rodney and said without introduction, "I've started your son on a new course of treatment. If it works, he ll get better. If it doesn't, he won't. While he's not getting better, he's going to experience so much pain that we'll have to put him in a chemically-induced coma while we figure out what to do next."

Rodney looked at the man. When you knew it was there, the line of the collar could be seen under the rolltop.

"My son says you're a manipulative bastard."

The man blinked. "It's a pet name. I call him Doctor Bling."

Rodney looked back up at the altar and the stained glass window above it. "I assume you're here for a reason. What do you want from me?"

"When your son is in a coma," the man said, "you're the one who's going to have to make the medical decisions for him."

"Oh, whatever you decide is fine," Rodney said.

There was a pause. After a long moment, the white man said, almost neutrally, "You don't care what I do?"

"I'm not a doctor, what do I know?" Rodney glanced at him, and saw the man watching him, intently. But for the line of the collar, he didn't look like a slave, but Foreman said he had the legal status of an MRI machine. "Except what Eric tells me. He says you re the best doctor he s ever worked with."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

There was a knock on Wilson's door: Wilson called out "Come," without looking up from his work. He was profoundly startled, and pleased, to see Greg at the door.

Greg limped across and knelt down in front of his desk. "Foreman s out. The EEG shows he's still in pain, the antibiotics have had more than enough time, my team are going to do a live brain biopsy when Foreman's O2 stats hit 90."

"And?" Wilson asked.

"I want to go back to the cop's apartment," Greg said. "You can take me out of the hospital."

"Why?" Wilson's first thought was that he could deservedly get into trouble for vandalism, if Greg got sick: and second, that he would certainly get into trouble with Cuddy for taking Greg out of the hospital without permission.

"We should be cutting into a corpse s head," Greg said.

"The CDC collected the cop's body - "

"There's got to be other bodies."

"You think this thing has killed other people?"

"Foreman said that apartment was a dump. Some other varmint died there. If I can get in there and find a dead animal, we cut its head open instead of Foreman's."

"How are you going to get a hazmat suit?"

"Either they'll find the answer, or I'll find the answer. Doesn't matter." Greg put his hands behind his back and looked up at Wilson. "Help me."

Wilson looked down at his paperwork. He looked up again. Greg had his eyes fixed on Wilson. Wide, blue, _pleading_ eyes.

Wilson got up. He thought about making a speech about how he could get into trouble, but it would have sounded too much like bargaining. He could tell Cuddy he too was concerned about Foreman. And he would point out to Cuddy that Greg had come to him and begged for help.

"We'll go out through the car park," he said. "Do you have Luria's address?"

"And his door keys."

Wilson stayed outside the apartment. It was on the top floor of a ratty apartment building, and it wasn't possible for Greg to use this to escape. Greg had brought a minature microscope.

After a while, from inside the apartment, there was a thud, and then no other sound.

Wilson called Greg's name. He got no answer. In a moment of panic - he realised inside the apartment that he had seen Greg in a pool of blood, or swinging by the neck, or fallen and unable to get up - he was through the CDC seals on the door, and standing in a bachelor's pit of filth.

Greg was not in the apartment. He was on an outside ledge, with high walls. Wilson followed him out there. Looking around the pit, he almost wanted to stop breathing: he was careful not to touch anything. Greg had the microscope out and saw Wilson: he reached out his hand with a "gimme" gesture.

Wilson handed him his cellphone. Greg punched in a number. Without other greeting, he said "The water's riddled with Naegleria. The cop stole water for his pot farm, too."

There was a pause.

"You already did the biopsy?"

Another pause. Greg shut the phone off without saying goodbye.

"I screwed up," Greg said. He wasn't talking to Wilson, exactly. "I screwed up the first time, when Foreman talked me through this place. He told me everywhere he went, everything he saw, and he told me about the irrigation system and we tested the wrong water. The cop stole cable, he stole fertilizer, and he stole water."

"We should get out of here."

"Doesn't matter. It's Naegleria. It's curable." Greg picked himself up, and handed the phone back to Wilson, who handled it gingerly. Greg collected the microscope and got himself back through the window. He looked around the apartment, and then at Wilson, really looking at him for the first time since his office. "What did you do to me last weekend?"

"What?" Wilson paused, on his way out of the door, wanting to be out of this filthy place. There was probably more than one source of infection lurking there.

"I went to bed in my office on Friday night," Greg said. He sounded quite serious. "And the next thing I'm sure of, I was standing in Diagnostics conference room, in the middle of a DDX."

"What?" Wilson went on towards the door. "Come _on_. I need to get you back to the hospital."

Greg said in a small voice, "Wilson."

"What?" Wilson looked back. "Don't kneel, for God's sake, not _here._"

Greg was frowning. He swallowed. "Wilson. Please. I _don't_ remember."

"I'll take you back to the hospital," Wilson said. "Then your case is over, isn't it?"

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

"How's my son?" Rodney asked.

"Your son will be waking up soon," Doctor House said. He was with another doctor, a dark-haired brown-eyed young fellow. "He had primary amoebic meningoencephalitis. It's a parasite that goes through the nose and migrates into the brain, where it feeds on brain cells. The legionella attacked the parasite, that s why the disease slowed down."

"Is it treatable?"

"My team started him on an antiparasitic as soon as we figured out what it was, and the amoebas will clear out of his system. He's being weaned from the coma now."

"And then he'll be okay?" Rodney asked.

"There'll be no lasting damage from the parasite," Doctor House said.

They didn't go to the decontamination room, but took the elevator to another floor.

"Will he be okay?" Rodney checked.

Doctor House said nothing. The other doctor looked at him.

"What about the surgery?" Rodney asked.

"We don't know," Doctor House said at last.

Rodney nodded. "I'm sorry," he said to the other doctor. "I don't think we've met?"

"Doctor Wilson," the other doctor said.

Rodney was startled, past the worry. The young fellow looked pleasant and harmless. "My son's mentioned you," he said at last.

This time Eric was in an ordinary ward, by himself. Doctor Wilson, who didn't look like Rodney had thought, stood by the door.

Doctor House looked at the readings on the monitors, and said "Up and at 'em," to Eric.

Eric was blinking his eyes open.

"How're you feeling? Can you talk?" Doctor Cameron asked.

"I don't feel anything," Eric said.

"Are you numb?" Rodney asked, suddenly worried again. Brain damage, which he'd been telling himself had to be minor, could mean so much -

"No," Eric said. "I mean, I don't feel any pain."

"Keep your head still and follow my finger," Doctor House said.

"I'm okay?" Eric asked.

"Your breath stinks, you re peeing into a bag," Doctor House said. "What are our names?"

Eric looked at Doctor Cameron. "You did the biopsy? Thank you."

"Names," Doctor House said. Eric's gaze moved along the three of them.

"Cameron," he said. "My dad, and the manipulative bastard."

"You remembered," Doctor House said.

"How're you doing, Dad?" Eric asked.

"Great," Rodney said. "Relieved... great."

"What did I have?"

Doctor House stripped back the covers from the end of the bed.

Doctor Cameron said "Naegleria. Biopsy showed the amoeba, CDC autopsy eventually found the amoeba, and House found it in the water in the cop s roof."

"Wiggle your left toes," Doctor House said, cutting in over Cameron. He didn't act like a slave, Rodney thought. He looked again at Doctor Wilson.

"Wait, you went back and she did the biopsy?" Eric asked.

"Your left toes, Foreman." Doctor House said.

"I just did." Eric's gaze shifted.

"No, you didn't."

"He can't move his toes?" Rodney asked.

"He can move them," Doctor House said. "Raise your right arm."

Eric raised his left. He turned his head, but not far enough. "Who's that in the door?"

"I'll be staying for a few days," Rodney said. "I'll get a hotel room."

"You can stay in my apartment," Eric said. He dropped his left arm, caught a look Doctor Cameron was exchanging with Doctor House. "What? Chase, is that you?"

"No," Rodney said. "He'll be giving me a ride."

Doctor Wilson looked startled. Rodney bent over to give Eric a careful hug. "I'll be back soon," he promised.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

"Did Foreman's dad preach you a sermon?" Greg asked. He was sitting in his Eames chair: he had been watching the door. Waiting for Wilson to come back. "He knew I was a slave. Eric's got a big mouth."

Wilson pulled out the chair from behind the desk, and sat down in it, facing Greg.

"Are _you_ going to preach me a sermon?"

"Do you want to know what I did to you?" Wilson asked.

Greg turned his head away. He swallowed. His voice went small. "Yes," he said, but it sounded like a "No."

"I was angry," Wilson said. "I won't do it again."

Greg still wasn't looking at him. "Are you taking me back with you tonight?"

"No," Wilson said. "I'll bring your lunch tomorrow."

"Yippee," Greg said, toneless.

Wilson stood up. He waited for Greg to look at him.

"You have got to stop seeing me as some kind of ogre," he told him. "I really _don't_ want to hurt you."

_tbc_

_Nearly at the end of the second season! Thought I'd never get there... and there's a plot twist coming that I'm not sure you're going to like... but if you liked the story so far, why not leave a comment?  
_


	21. Forever

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee... Now almost at the end of 2nd season!_

**2.21 Forever**

Foreman had thanked Cameron for saving his life; but the longer he was on sick leave after the brain biopsy, the guiltier Cameron felt. For a while she and Chase had got on all right, but then Chase had been uncommunicative for several days and this morning he had announced Cuddy had put him on a two-week NICU rotation and disappeared.

And Doctor Wilson had stopped taking Greg home with him.

It had taken some time for Cameron to be sure - Wilson had generally collected Greg from Diagnostics after hours, so the fellows saw him only if Wilson hadn't known there was a Diagnostics case and showed up while they were still at work. Wilson always had a leash in his hand. Cameron had only seen Wilson clip the leash on Greg's collar once, but the look on Wilson's face - happy and satisfied - was something she still remembered.

Doctor House did clinic hours in the morning, always eight til ten, sometimes eight til noon, during a horrible stretch right after Foreman joined them from eight til noon and then from four til eight. When Wilson took him home, he delivered Greg directly to the clinic in the morning. When Greg slept in his own cubby-hole, he went downstairs just after seven to have breakfast in the slave canteen and then to the clinic. So Cameron could find out directly by doing her clinic hours first thing in the morning, or by making a reason to be in the hospital foyer about eight.

But she'd known before she proved it by the way Doctor House acted: he looked less tired and less distracted and he ate more of the healthy snacks that Cameron brought in and left in the fridge.

Doctor Wilson hadn't taken off the tag. But was he less interested in House? Cameron knew she had at least a year to go in the Diagnostics fellowship - she was working on another paper, she'd accept invitations to speak at medical conferences - but if she was offered a job at PPTH and Wilson removed his tag... She could tag him. She could _protect_ him.

Daydreaming. But, Greg looked better when he limped in at ten. Cameron greeted him as she knew he would prefer "Chase got a case in the ER; he wants us to take a look."

"Unless Chase broke his neck falling off his polo pony," Doctor House said, "he had no reason to be in the ER." But he reached for the file and leafed through it, looking up at her with a frown.

"Cuddy put him on a two week NICU rotation." Cameron is surprised and then not surprised that Cuddy hadn't told Greg. "Patient had an unexplained seizure."

"Seizures are cool to watch, boring to diagnose," Doctor House dismissed it, putting the file down on the table and walking over to the coffeemaker. "What about Foreman? He needs to get his malingering butt back here."

"He almost died," Cameron protested. Alone with Doctor House, she was reminded again why tagging him wasn't a good idea.

"Almost being the operative word," Foreman said from behind them both.

"Hey," Cameron said, surprised and pleased. "How are you doing? You look great."

Foreman moved briskly: he hugged her hard. "Thanks," he said. He was still hugging her, tall and solid: he had never been this easily affectionate before. "I feel great."

"Glad you're back," House said. "Cameron makes lousy coffee. I take mine black, the way I take my brain-damaged neurologists."

Cameron wasn't expecting Foreman to snap at Greg - he was clearly in a good mood - but she was astonished when he stopped hugging her to smile at House. "Happy to help."

"How are you coming along?" Cameron asked

"Tell her everything is great," House said. "Neither of us wants to deal with her guilt."

"I don't feel guilty," Cameron protested.

"Of course not," Greg said, with wide eyes, "hell if people felt guilt every time they accidentally lobotomised a guy..."

"I was trying to save his life," Cameron corrected him. She did feel guilty, but rationally, she knew she had no reason to: she hadn't supposed Greg could get into the contaminated apartment, let alone figure out there was something they hadn't tested. Foreman was struggling with the coffee packet.

"Yeah," House said, taking the coffee packet away from Foreman, "your heart was in the right place." He tore the packet open and added "It's just his brain that's not quite where it's supposed to be. Tell her everything's great," he added to Foreman.

Cameron was expecting Foreman to react angrily, but he only smiled. "It's true. No more left-side right-side reversals, still some short-term memory loss and spatial processing problems but trying not to be too hard on myself."

"Yeah, might pull a muscle," House said. He handed Foreman a filter paper.

Foreman's eyes fell on the file on the table. "We have a case?"

Relieved, Cameron said "Seizure that can't be explained by epilepsy. And accompanied by elevated calcium levels."

"Still bored," House sing-songed. He looked at Foreman. "Tell her why."

Foreman still smiled. "Because seizure with mildly elevated calcium is diagnostically simple. It's either hyper parathyroid, cancer, or calcium-mediated neurotoxicity." Weirdly, it looked as if he couldn't figure out how to open up the filter paper and put it in the coffee-maker.

"Well done," House said. He took the filter paper away from Foreman and finished setting up the coffee-maker. "But until you can remember how to make coffee, hands off the patients."

"House," Cameron said. She really was slightly annoyed by this time. The referral came via Chase, and Cameron had looked through the file thoroughly before House glanced over it. "All those reasons this case bores you, the ER has already ruled them out."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Wilson was practicing patience. Doctor Cuddy had banned him from removing Greg from the hospital, but had let him keep his tag: Nurse Previn, who ranked as a department head, had insisted it had to be something Wilson had done to Greg that had sent him into a fugue state, unfit for work.

But of course Greg didn't know Wilson had been banned from taking him out, and he had no access to the hospital mainframe: so far as Greg knew, Wilson was _choosing_ not to take him home. Greg ate his breakfast in the slave canteen, Wilson brought him a bag lunch and, when he had time, ate with Greg: and in the evening, Wilson fed him before giving him his oxycodine. Greg was becoming less skittish, learning to relax.

And Cuddy had invited him out to dinner tonight. Wilson smiled to himself, alone in the elevator. He'd spoken to Nurse Previn, told him that unless Greg had a case she could have him in the clinic from four to eight, and be in charge of when he got his painkillers. Wilson had considered briefly the possibility that Cuddy meant this as a date, but not seriously: Cuddy notoriously looked outside of the hospital for her personal relationships, and she knew how interested Wilson was in Greg. Of course he'd mention the funding he was looking to raise for the play space for kids in chemotherapy, but he didn't suppose that was top of Cuddy's priority list.

He mentioned it casually when he brought Greg his lunch, just to see how his slave would react. "Hey, I'm recently single, she's single," but Greg just looked at him and shrugged and went on eating his sandwich. He had a case up on the whiteboard, seizures, and Wilson told him that the clinic had him scheduled for four hours this evening.

Greg shrugged again. "Figures."

"You'll need to go there for your pain medication," Wilson told him. "I won't be back this evening."

"Got it."

But towards the end of the day - Wilson was working at his desk, getting ready to finish so that he could freshen up before he picked Cuddy up for their meal out - Greg knocked on the door of his office and came in.

Wilson suppressed a pleased smile. The couple of weeks gentle handling had evidently been what Greg needed, if he was now seeking Wilson out.

But Greg put an empty box down on Wilson's desk. "This is from Cuddy's trash. Look at what she bought."

"How - " Wilson waved his hand, bewildered.

Greg shrugged. "Who empties your trash bin?"

One of the hospital slaves would come in, usually when Wilson was out, to bag it up and take it away. Wilson had never noticed.

"Never mind how I got it. Look at what she bought."

"Red clover." Wilson wasn't interested.

Greg put on a sing-song voice. "What is red clover used for, Doctor Wilson?"

Red clover contained an isoflavone called Genistein that could prevent new blood vessels from forming within a tumor. Wilson didn't discourage his patients from taking it, unless they had breast cancer: it might or might not help but, except for its affinity with estrogen receptors, it couldn't hurt.

But if Doctor Cuddy had cancer, she didn't need to invite Wilson out to dinner to discuss it. "Also used to treat asthma, psoriasis, joint pain..." Wilson noted.

Greg shook his head. "She doesn't wheeze, flake or ache. And she didn't ask a pulmonologist or a dermatologist for dinner. She invited an oncologist. It's not a date, it's a consult."

Wilson still thought it was probably neither - Cuddy wanted to discuss Greg - but he had no intention of mentioning that.

Doctor Cameron came in very briskly, without knocking. She glanced at Wilson and said to Greg, "Mom's MRI was negative for masses, abscesses, there's no sign that she has myelogenous meningitis - "

"Fascinating," Greg said. "Call me when we have - "

"She has a subarachnoid bleed," Cameron said, and that did get Greg's attention. He left with Cameron, ignoring Wilson.

Cuddy had booked a table for two in a restaurant Wilson didn't know: he complimented Cuddy on her choice as they looked at the menus.

"You've had a difficult year," Cuddy said after some casual talk. "The divorce... your third?"

Wilson hadn't thought about Julie in a long time. In many ways it had been the most painless end to any of his marriages: although to fail three times at marriage was downright embarrassing. He nodded, accepting Cuddy's sympathy, wondering how to bring the conversation round to Greg.

"At least there aren't kids involved," Cuddy said. "You just have each other to deal with."

Sam had wanted children "later, maybe": Bonnie hadn't wanted children at all: with Julie, the question had never come up, just as if they had both known the relationship wasn't going to last. Wilson thought about it, briefly. He had always gone along with what his partner wanted: he supposed that if Bonnie or Julie had wanted children, he'd probably have agreed. Would he still be with either of them, if there had been their own kids to think about? He became aware he'd been silent too long in the ordinary give-and-take of conversation, thinking about his three failed marriages, and made some kind of meaningless comment.

"Do you want kids?"

Wilson was startled. He wondered what he'd said. Doctor Cuddy was looking at him thoughtfully, as if she'd taken his comment much more personally than he'd intended it. "Is there anything in particular you wanted to...?" he asked. "Hospital business or...?" Was Greg right? Was Cuddy worried she had cancer? Had she been diagnosed elsewhere?

"Catching up," Cuddy said, looking uncomfortable. "I mean, you know... it's not like either one of us has anybody to run home to."

Wilson nodded. They went on eating. He'd meant to casually raise the topic of Greg - but he was uncomfortable with the idea that Cuddy thought he'd tagged Greg out of reaction to his failed marriage with Julie. He'd been interested in Greg long before he and Julie separated. And he was wondering as Cuddy and he talked on a range of topics any of which they could have discussed over lunch in the hospital, if Greg was right about the red clover.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Once Chase had brought himself to admit his problem to Doctor Cuddy, the Dean had been promptly and effectively helpful. The hospital had an advisor Chase could talk to about consolidation, and Chase could work in the NICU for two weeks - they could always use another intensivist. The advisor was concerned but not especially worried; he assured Chase that if he followed the advisor's instructions, he had nothing to worry about. Chase was finally sleeping nights.

House was watching him examine the baby's lungs. Chase wished House would go away - the mother was the Diagnostics patient, there was nothing much wrong with the baby aside from an unexpected dunking in a bubble bath. Foreman and Cameron were hovering in the background. It was good to see Foreman back, however unexpectedly cheery he was being.

"So what causes seizures, hypercalcemia and the thing where mommy bends like Gumby?" House asked.

Chase stared at the x-ray, not turning his head. "A little busy here."

House looked over his shoulder. "Oh oh, baby's lungs are going to conk out any minute. Probably want to deal with that."

"I'll get right on it as soon as I finish indulging my boss." Wilson still had House tagged, but at least he wasn't taking him home any more. Maybe he'd run out of ideas, fun ways to torment him: but Chase thought more than likely this was just a break to let House get back into a state where Wilson could have fun with him again. Still, despite everything - Chase had more serious things to worry about than Doctor Wilson's fun with his boss - it was good to have House back to his normal, irritating self again.

"Multi-task," House snapped.

"Chemical pneumonitis," Chase told the nurse. "Bubble bath got into the baby's lungs when he was underwater. Start him on prednisone; keep him on high FIO2." The nurse nodded and left, casting a curious glance at House - he wasn't wearing his roll-top, patients weren't allowed in here.

"Let the indulging commence," House said.

Chase had time to think about it. Lithium could cause all three of the mother's symptoms."

"No record she's on lithium," Cameron told him.

"And tox screen was negative," Foreman added.

"Lithium doesn't show on a basic tox screen, scarecrow," House told Foreman, who didn't react except with a slight smile and, after a thoughtful pause "Myelogenous meningitis could also cover everything."

"Rare complications of a rare blood cancer," House said after a moment. "You're not totally hopeless." He looked at Cameron. "Get an S-pep and an MRI for the myelogenous meningitis." He looked back at Foreman. "Search the patient's place for lithium." He looked at Chase. "Baby's lung problem is bacterial, not chemical, start ECMO." He looked again at Foreman. "While you're searching for the lithium, take a water sample and check the pipes. You want me to write this down for you?"

Foreman still just smiled, nodded, turned to go: Cameron had already left. House looked at Chase. "I ask you, is almost dying any excuse for not being fun?" He pitched his comment loud enough for Foreman to hear, but Chase saw no reaction.

"I'm not putting that baby on ECMO," Chase said. "The chance of there being bacteria in bathwater - "

"Why don't you want to work for me?" House asked.

Chase snorted. "I'm not working NICU because of you." House was so far off Chase's motivations that it was almost funny. "The baby's x-ray suggests a chemical pneumonitis."

"Not to me," House said. "X-ray was too consolidated. So why are you down here? Hoping to expand your make-out pool to include the preme to nine-year-old demographic?"

Chase shook his head. "I needed a break. From the patients," he added. Cuddy had advised that anyone in the hospital would assume Chase wanted a break from working for Greg. Somehow that didn't sit right with Chase. "They lie to us all the time," he expanded. "Foreman almost _died_ trying to save a drug-dealing cop. I just wanted to get away from that for a while."

House looked at him. His eyes seemed to absorb Chase. "What a complete load of crap. What am I, a nurse you're trying to prep with this vulnerability thing?"

Chase switched back to the patient - he was pretty sure that would distract House. "ECMO could kill him."

"You don't start him on ECMO and that infection could rampage through his body like pistons fans after a championship. But you do it your way. Nothing more _honest_ than a dead baby." House didn't move. "Love working NICU? I can get you transferred."

"I just want to trust patients," Chase repeated. "For a couple of weeks. I'll be back. Unless you fire me."

House shook his head. "You don't give a crap about patients. You're taking your vacation time from Diagnostics."

Strangely, the first thing that occurred to Chase was that House wasn't supposed to have that kind of access to the hospital mainframe any more.

"You're doubledipping," House said. "Drawing a salary in NICU. Strange - rich boy doing all that for some extra cash."

House knew. Chase reached out to switch the lab light off. House opened the door and stepped out of his reach. He was standing in the hall outside, bleakly lit from the overhead lights, and the collar seemed to cut his head off at the neck. House knew.

"I'm not rich," Chase repeated, dead level, and walked out of the lab. He had a job to go to in NICU, and he'd be eating cheap and not going on any vacations for a while, but the hospital advisor said with the lump sum from NICU, Chase would bring his debt down to well below the level over which a distraints agency could claim him, and after that, it was just a matter of keeping the payments regular.

"But your dad was; now he's dead," House said. "If you're not rich that means that daddy cut you out."

His father had left him some money in Australian government bonds. Not enough to make any real difference - the residue of the estate had been left to his dad's new wife - and difficult to transfer to the US, anyway. Chase's debts had been high enough initially, the advisor had told him, that if he'd attempted to leave the US (as his first panicky thought had been, on getting the lawyer's letter about his father's estate) he would have been subject to immediate distraint.

"I'm not rich," Chase repeated. And he wasn't going to be wearing a collar, either.

"Don't let it change you," House said, and walked off.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Wilson had gone back to the hospital after dinner with Cuddy. He was in the oncology lab doing a test for PCR when Greg came in.

"How was dinner?" Greg asked. He was standing well out of reach, but Wilson was pleased to see him.

"Cuddy did not mention cancer."

"She lost her nerve," Greg said.

"It was a date," Wilson said. He eyed Greg, waiting for a reaction, and Greg came a little closer, peering at the test.

"What are you doing?"

"PCR test," Wilson said casually.

He didn't like the tone of Greg's voice when he said "You're doing it yourself, in the middle of the night?" Greg looked at him, and added "On a spoon. Cuddy's spoon?"

"I'm checking her saliva for cancer markers," Wilson admitted.

"Yeah," Greg said, slowly. "I did that after all my dates too."

"I stole her spoon, you stole her garbage."

"I traded some perfectly good medical advice for her garbage."

Wilson studied Greg thoughtfully. Greg was now standing close enough that Wilson could have handled him, if that weren't likely to drive him off. "Why are you worried about Cuddy?"

"You go first," Greg said. "You desperately want this to be a date."

Wilson smiled. Greg wanted it to be a date, and that was interesting. Greg was concerned about Cuddy's health, and that was intriguing - would Greg be as interested in Wilson's, if circumstances were different?" "Because the alternative is cancer," Wilson said.

"You like her," Greg said.

"You're concerned for her," Wilson said.

"She's my supervisor," Greg said. "She gets sick, the hospital might replace her, especially if she dies. I'd have to learn how to manipulate someone new." He sounded rigorously indifferent.

Wilson's head rocked back. He stared at Greg. "Get out of here," he said abruptly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Kara couldn't see Foreman in the doorway: Foreman was pretty sure she wasn't paying attention to anything outside her own pain. "I killed my son," she said, as she had been saying, at intervals, since she woke up after the niacin treatment. It would be a long time before Foreman could ever forget that wail of horror as she knew. If he ever could. Everyone else had given up on trying to talk Kara round.

Greg's voice was much clearer. "Is it my turn to say something obvious now? Oh I know,_ you were insane_."

"I did it," Kara said. "I chose to do it."

"Yeah," Greg said, "like diabetics choose to not produce insulin. Listen, someone got sick, someone died. Happens every day. The only difference in this case is it wasn't the same someone."

"I could have stopped. I didn't have to listen to those voices."

"Spoken like a true sane person," Greg said. "This is not your fault. You're healthy now... except for the cancer."

"Those voices felt as real to me as Michael's hand. Right here when he nursed. And... the smell of his hair..."

"You do not deserve to die," Greg said.

"Maybe I don't want to live," Kara said.

After a while, Greg got up and limped out of the ward. Foreman moved out of his way and followed him. Greg said "She said no." He sounded empty, despairing.

"So we get her declared unstable," Foreman said, "appoint a medical proxy."

"She was unstable," Greg said. He kept walking. "Now she's sane. She's entitled to refuse treatment."

"We have to change her mind, you can't just walk away," Foreman said. He'd never known Doctor House give up on a patient.

Greg stopped and turned, his expression surprisingly fierce. "Fine!" This wasn't Greg trying to get a rise out of him, this was genuine anger. "Go on in there and tell her that every day is a blessing! So you killed your baby, shake it off, think positive! _At least you're alive._"

Foreman stood still, unable to think of anything to say.

"Hmm," Greg said, with a nasty smile, "kind of hard to sell when you don't believe it, hmm? And you never believed it. You just wanted all that crap you went through to mean something, well it didn't mean anything, it never does. Welcome back." He turned away again and limped off.

Foreman followed him. "Why are you doing this to me? I was happy!"

"You were aspiring to be content," Greg said. He kept moving.

"Don't give me a semantic argument," Foreman snarled. "I was content with the way things were! That's what happiness is!"

"Yeah, if we're all just satisfied with what we have, what a beautiful world it would be. We'd all slowly starve to death in our own filth, but at least we'd be _happy_." Greg stopped by the elevator. "Listen, I need your self-worth to hang on this job. I need you kicking ass here to be all that lets you rise above being miserable, if waking up in the morning is enough, I don't need you."

Foreman looked at the slave. Chin up, one hand pressed against his leg, the other, resting on his cane, was shaking a little. Greg was angry, but he was also frightened. If Foreman quit, Greg stopped having even the slightest hold over him. Foreman shrugged. "I can live with that."

Greg looked at him, and shook his head. He got into the elevator. Foreman didn't follow him. "No you can't," Greg said. "Not anymore."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

They told Brent that Kara had stomach cancer. Treatable, but she was refusing treatment. If funds were available - they had no insurance - Kara would go from the hospital to a hospice, and she would die there.

There were staff going into and out of Kara's room for a while. Brent sat and thought about their bank balance, the credit card bills, the lack of insurance. They'd met in AA, and for a while it seemed like they could beat both the debts and the drink if they worked together. But they'd failed. And there wasn't any point in going on.

He got up and went into Kara's room. She looked red-eyed from all the weeping, but so much like she always did that he almost changed his mind. "If you got treatment then maybe we could..."

But there really wasn't anything to say. Except "When you see Mikey... tell him his dad says he's sorry."

Brent turned away. He didn't go home. There was nothing there for him any more. He had just enough cash in his wallet for a cab almost all the way, though he had to walk the last half mile, and it was raining. But the door opened at a touch, and inside it was dry and warm.

He walked up to the desk and put his ID on the counter. "You've been sending us letters," he said. "About our debt. I decided..." he swallowed. "Time to do it."

The notary public had him identify himself by fingerprints and retinal scan, and read him out a form of words, which he didn't really listen to: he knew what she was saying. Then she pointed. "Kneel down by that and fit your neck into the GatesCorp machine. Once you're collared, you will be taken to admissions for further processing."

So that was okay then. He was done.

_tbc_

Only t_wo more episodes to go! Yes, CollarRedux season 3 will be happening like a happening thing, Plot Twist And All... hurricanes permitting!_


	22. Who's Your Daddy

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Nearly at the end of season two, will continue into season three..._

**2.22 Who's Your Daddy?**

Seventeen years and six months ago Crandall had figured out what had happened to Greg House, and had also figured out it wouldn't be exactly healthy to talk about it. When a person became a slave, you were supposed to think of them as gone. After all, they were: you were never likely to see them again.

But Greg didn't vanish the way most people who became slaves did. Doctor House reappeared, kind of: he never showed up at medical conferences and no one ever got to meet him, but he wrote papers and they got published in medical journals that Crandall didn't pretend to understand. He read them anyway. He figured out that Greg was at a teaching hospital in New Jersey, owned by it he guessed, and he seemed to be fairly stable there, doing real medical work. Inventing his own speciality: diagnostics.

Crandall played with the idea of going there. He was never actually in New Jersey to work, but he was close enough a few times, he could have taken a day and gone to Princeton and walked into that hospital. Pretended to have some kind of galloping disease that only their magic doctor could cure.

He never did. He figured that it would be just for him, really, doing that, getting to see Greg: with every paper Greg published he knew he was alive and working as a doctor, and anything more, well, Greg always hated other people knowing when he was in trouble, and this was the worst kind of trouble.

Except it was different when it was your own kid. The first hospital he took Leona to after they landed, after she had the heart attack on the plane from New Orleans, they checked her out and said nothing was wrong - except she was having a heart attack and there was nothing wrong with her heart. She hadn't been eating right, they said, but she'd been in a shelter for months, the food had been crappy. She'd do better now she was going to stay with him, get regular meals. Crandall didn't know medicine but he knew a bullshitter, and this was BS.

Crandall finally did what he'd never thought he would really do: he called PPTH and told them he had a patient for the Diagnostics department, he wanted her to be referred there to be diagnosed and treated. He got turned down at first, told to go through normal channels, but he was expecting that: he wouldn't be much of an interviewer if he didn't know how to get around the switchboard system and speak to the person in charge. Once he got the Dean of Medicine on the phone, someone who could cut through red tape for him, things went smoother. He admitted he was an old friend of Greg House, and she said curiously, having agreed to take Leona as a Diagnostics case, "How long since you saw him?"

"It's got to be nearly twenty years," Crandall said. It was eighteen years less two weeks, but it would sound better if he wasn't quite exact.

"You understand," the Dean said, "although he functions as a doctor, he is really just medical equipment. He's owned by the hospital, he's not your friend any more."

Crandall smiled into the phone before he spoke. You always smiled, it made a friendly voice sound that much more convincing. "Sure," he said, smiling, friendly. "I get it. He's kind of like a human MRI machine, right? Well, I want to be able to explain the background to him, give him all the details. This is my _daughter_."

He hung up on the Dean after a pleasant exchange: she was convinced he didn't want to write some kind of expose, he wasn't going to spoil things for the hospital by letting everyone know they had a slave treating patients, he wasn't going to treat Greg like a human being. So he'd have access to speak with him, maybe even in private. That made him feel good, for about three seconds, and then the whole thing with Leona came back.

He'd only known he had a daughter for three days. But he had to take responsibility for her. The children's shelters in New Orleans now were like a harvest field for the slavers: the kids couldn't legally be sold except by their parents til they turned eighteen, but they didn't have any possessions, most of them, no family, nothing. About ninety-five percent of the kids in the shelters were slaves within six months of their eighteenth birthday. (If they made the mistake of staying on in the shelters after they turned 18, they didn't have any money to pay, so they started building up a debt, and it took exactly six months for that debt to loom large enough in a penniless eighteen-year-old's finances for the state to justify selling them off as slaves. That was just the most straightforward way. There were others.)

It felt good to know Leona was never going to be one of them. It felt almost as good to know he had material for at least two good books, both the one he'd meant to write (about the Old Orleans neighborhood surviving after Katrina) and the other one he was going to write, about the invisible harvest of Katrina survivors as slaves. In fact that was the perfect title: _The Invisible Harvest_. No, his agent would want him to get Katrina in there somewhere. _After Katrina: The Invisible Harvest_.

Slavery was meant to be for people who had fucked up their lives so completely that they needed someone else to take control. It wasn't meant for kids whose lives had been fucked up by a disaster like Katrina. He'd need to be even-handed, agree that maybe some of the kids in the shelters would have ended up as slaves anyway, but not nineteen out of twenty, hell no. Something gone wrong somewhere with a situation like that.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Wilson had never liked Nurse Brenda. Not even, he was sure now, in the long-ago days before he'd realised just how interesting the Diagnostics slave was, when he was likely to speak to Brenda Previn only when he was dealing with his clinic hours.

"Seriously increased leg pain," Nurse Brenda reported. Greg, who had been supposed to do four hours clinic duty from eight to twelve, had been sent away soon after nine. "He couldn't do clinic work: he couldn't stand still for long enough." She glanced at Wilson, briefly. Her expression wasn't pleasant. "He wasn't faking: I sent him down to the basement after the first patient complained, but he acted just the same when he came back up."

"Diagnostics has a case," Cuddy said. "Did he seem able to work?"

Brenda shrugged. "He was mentally all there, certainly." She looked at Wilson again. "Doctor Wilson?"

"Yes?" Wilson looked back at her, smiling benevolently. It took an effort.

"Is there any reason why Greg would be hurting so much?"

"None that I know of, unless he's been self-harming," Wilson said. He knew Greg hadn't.

Cuddy sighed and made a note on her pad. "Fine - I'll have him given a checkover. Do you think he's been self-harming?"

"No," Wilson said, and realised Brenda had said "No," too.

"Greg has deliberately self-harmed twice in the past seventeen years," Nurse Brenda said. "Once, he broke his hand, and once, he cut himself down his left arm. He didn't try to conceal it - he wasn't _able_ to conceal it - and he didn't act like this."

"He broke his _hand_?" Cuddy looked really startled. "I thought that was an accident."

"I didn't report it as self-harming," Nurse Brenda said. "It was when the Diagnostics Maintenance committee let out to him he was going to be detoxed, a couple of days before he was actually taken away. There wasn't much point in having him sent off for a whipping just then." Her tone of voice indicated she didn't think there ever was. She shook her head, and looked at Wilson again. "His leg hurts. He can't do his clinic hours. I need this fixed." She nodded to Cuddy and got up.

Wilson made to get up, but Cuddy waved him to stay in his seat, and picked up the patient file. "Diagnostics has a case," she said. "Sixteen year old presenting with cardiogenic shock. No heart attack. The patient's father wants private interviews with Doctor House to give all of the diagnostic detail. In itself, not a problem - Greg's had to have private interviews before - but there's a problem here: the patient's father knows Greg's a slave, and he writes for a living. His name's Dylan Crandall."

Wilson shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"I had to look him up on Amazon. He's written about two dozen books, mostly about the music industry. He went to college with House." Cuddy paused. "This shouldn't cause a problem for us. Crandall appears to accept that the man he knew in college doesn't really exist any more. I'm concerned about what Brenda Previn tells me about Greg's increased leg pain, but I am more concerned that Crandall does not get time alone with Greg - you're entitled to be present at all private interviews your tagged slave has with any free person, and I want you to exercise that right."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Foreman was scanning through the file. "Her heart looks fine. ER did a full cardiac workup. Tox screen's clean, blood work shows no infection - "

"All on the top page," House said. He wasn't standing by the white board, he was walking restlessly up and down the room.

"Acute myocardial infarction?" Chase asked.

"ER said no. Retest."

"Wolff-Parkinson White syndrome?" Cameron asked.

"ER said no." House stopped pacing to glare at her. "Retest, and read the damn file."

"You just gave them to us," Cameron protested foolishly.

"Delta wave on the EKG looks like - " Foreman started, but House cut in. "It's all a 'no'. Everything about her heart is healthy."

"She's a Katrina victim!" Cameron said suddenly, winning another glare from House.

"Yeah, my heart bleeds for her."

"I don't think she was expecting your sympathy," Chase said. "I think her point was New Orleans was a third-world country: toxins, mold, sewage in the streets..."

"What if it was an arrhythmia, a one time event?" Foreman asked. House stopped pacing and clutched at his leg.

"What are we going to do," Cameron said, "keep her in a room on a cardiac monitor until she has another arrhythmia? That could be weeks, months!"

"Relax," House said. He straightened up, letting go of his leg, "I happen to know she s going to have one in a couple of hours. We are golden."

"You can't induce an arrhythmia in someone whose heart gave out nearly 48 hours ago," Cameron protested.

"Sure you can," House said brightly, "but it is kind of technical - you stick all these cool little wires inside her somehow, and - "

"I mean you shouldn't," Cameron said.

"Oh, right, because it would be much more ethical to let it happen in an uncontrolled setting. There's always a team of cardiologists sitting at the next table, this is Jersey!" House smirked. "She's a minor, she's going to need consent."

"I'll go talk to him," Cameron volunteered.

"Oh, that's an excellent plan!" House said. "You'll give him the form and tell him it's wrong and dangerous."

"I can handle a simple consent form," Cameron protested.

"Okay, I'll be Crandall," House said. He stopped, right in front of Cameron, indicating she should get up. "Doctor Cameron - "

"Crandall?" Chase asked, and Foreman glanced down at the form.

"Are you _in_ this scene?" House asked. "Go," he said to Cameron.

Cameron stood up. She said awkwardly, "I'd like to talk to you about a procedure we'd like to do on Leona."

"Like to do?" House widened his eyes. "Is this fun for you?"

"He's not you!" Cameron protested. "He's not going to mock me."

"Stay in character!" House said. He leaned forward. "I'm so scared. Hold me."

Cameron went on in a very doctorly voice, "In order to figure out which circuit is misfiring, we need to map all the electrical activity in her heart."

"Swear to me on the Bible you'd do this if it was your kid," House said. He waited a beat, and added "Good-bye."

Before any of the three of them quite realised it, House had left the room, and was limping rapidly towards the Diagnostics ward.

Cameron looked after him, outright bewildered.

"House remembered the patient's _father's_ name?" Foreman said.

"Why is he having trouble standing still?" Chase asked.

"His leg hurts," Cameron said. "Walking takes his mind off of it."

"His leg always hurts," Chase retorted.

"It's getting worse," Foreman said.

Chase shrugged. They all glanced at the wall that separated Diagnostics from Doctor Wilson's office. None of them had seen Doctor Wilson yet this morning, but they all knew he'd taken Greg home with him last night.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Leona was asleep. The ward was tiny, as hospital wards went, just a one-patient room that seemed to have been carved off the larger oncology ward next door. Crandall had seen the Diagnostics department on the signs. He looked along the hall and saw, walking briskly towards him, a man he recognised on sight, though not much about him was familar. Crandall went back into the ward and a moment later the tall man limped in and looked at him, very impassively.

"G-man!" Crandall closed the door. He lifted his arms as if to threaten a hug, and saw Greg react to that. He laughed. "You thought I was going to do it, didn't you?" He stood there drinking the sight of Greg in: still tall and blue-eyed, the same long half-handsome face: he had a tidy haircut and he looked a bit more clean-shaven than he had in the old days, and he was walking with a limp, leaning on a cane.

"Do I know you?" Greg asked.

Crandall's jaw dropped. He had expected everything except that. He'd gained a bit of weight, sure, but he hadn't changed _that_ much. "Come on, it's me, Crandall!"

Greg frowned. He shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

It had been well over seventeen years since the last time they'd talked, but - "Man, I can t believe you didn t - " And then Crandall saw the gleam in Greg's eyes.

"Unless you mean _Dylan_ Crandall, the man who'll believe anything." Greg almost smiled. "See, I just made you believe that I..."

"You haven't changed," Crandall said. "You hurt your leg?"

"Yeah, pulled a hamstring playing Twister. Just going to walk it off. So, who's the girl?"

"Jesse Baker's granddaughter. You always said you'd give your right hand to play like him."

"No," Greg corrected, "I said I'd give my right hand to have his left. Why is she with you?"

"She lost her mom in Katrina, her home, everything."

"Wow," Greg said, flatly.

"And I'm her father." Crandall could not keep the note of pride out of his voice. It was really something having a daughter like Leona.

Greg glanced over at Leona. "Hmmm... yeah. She looks just like you. Got the same 'fro."

"I wrote a book about Baker, hung out with him - his daughter."

"Yeah, that's how babies are made."

"I never knew," Crandall said. He still couldn't get over this. He'd been sad and angry that time in New Orleans, losing his friend, and Mia had been angry and sad over what her father's drinking was doing to his music, and they'd had fantastic sex for a while, and then it had ended and they hadn't even stayed friends. "She never knew. Her mom lied for sixteen years."

"That's unbelievable," Greg said.

"Yeah," Crandall said, nodding.

"Seriously, I don't believe it."

"Her mom was pissed at me about my book; I trashed her and her dad. She wouldn't talk to me; obviously, she's not going to tell Leona that - "

"You're a sucker," Greg said sharply. "You always were."

"Does that mean you're not going to help her?" Crandall asked.

"Why wouldn't I?" Greg asked. "She's not scamming me." He glanced over his shoulder. "We're going to perform a test on her heart."

"You're going to help?"

"Pay attention," Greg said. "We're going to figure out what caused her to have an arrhythmia. We're going to map the electrical pathways of her heart. We send electricity to each, one at a time, until one fails. As her 'father', you have to sign a consent form. You're going to walk back to Diagnostics with me where we keep the forms and the doctors, and sign one."

"It sounds dangerous."

"No, I do it every day. The other doctors won't hurt you."

Crandall shook his head. "If she's got an electrical problem, couldn't more electricity blow her whole system?"

"Well, who's been watching Mr. Wizard's World? The test is perfectly safe. We do it every day."

"Okay," Crandall said. He went back over to the bed to look again at the sleeping Leona, his daughter, and then looked up at Greg. "Look, to get to see you, I had to..."

Greg looked back at him. "Who'd you bribe?"

"Not like that. Your boss, Doctor Cuddy, she knows I knew you in college."

"She knows?" Greg stared at him, and, as so many times before, Crandall thought he could _see_ Greg's brain suddenly working at about a hundred times the normal rate. "So you told her you'd treat me like you would any other MRI machine?" he said, slowly, and he was probably thinking about thirty other things too, but Crandall was relieved to have that over with.

"Yeah," Crandall said. He shrugged and grinned apologetically. "I got permission for us to talk in private."

"No you didn't," Greg said.

"Sure I did."

"You're about to meet a new part of my life," Greg said, hastily, with another glance over his shoulder. "Trust me: not nearly as much fun as it sounds."

The door opened and another doctor came in, a handsome guy about ten years younger than Greg and Crandall, with a friendly, open look. He had a form in his hand. "Dylan Crandall," he said, and held out his other hand. "I'm Doctor Wilson."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Crandall couldn't have had very long to talk privately with Greg. Wilson handed him the consent form and a pen, and gave him a brief outline of the test that the Diagnostics fellows said had been suggested, and Crandall nodded and prepared to sign the form.

"And you believe me," Greg said.

Crandall turned and looked at him. "I shouldn't do the test?"

"It's crazy dangerous. Just sign the damn form." Greg handed him a tissue.

"I'm not crying, I can handle this," Crandall said.

Wilson cleared his throat. Just that brief interaction was disturbing to him.

"Blow your nose," Greg said. "I need DNA from somewhere."

"You're not running a paternity test," Crandall said.

"No, he's not," Wilson said. They both looked at him. Wilson glanced at the girl, who was deep asleep. "Greg is the property of the hospital, as I am sure Doctor Cuddy explained to you. He doesn't have the authority to perform tests outside the purview of the Diagnostics department, and your daughter is the Diagnostics patient, not you."

Crandall glanced over at his daughter, apparently reflexively, and Wilson frowned at Greg, a warning look, getting a blank and impassive stare in return before Greg said, to Crandall, in unmistakably hostile tones, "She's going to stay around just long enough to get your bank account, your credit card numbers and then she's going to be off with her next daddy."

Wilson drew breath, set to apologize for Greg on behalf of the hospital and to assure Crandall that the slave would be punished, but Crandall spoke first.

"What she's been through... why would you assume - " He sounded wounded, indignant, but not angry.

"Because of what she's been through," Greg said.

"Because that's your default position, always has been!" Crandall snapped, and Greg didn't flinch.

"Because she's still alive! Raised by a junkie, living off the streets, that tends to kick the sweetness out of you."

"Figured you'd have mellowed," Crandall said. He signed the form and handed it to Greg.

"That's because you're an idiot," Greg said, and walked out, form in hand, leaving Crandall with Wilson.

Crandall glanced back at his daughter - still asleep - and walked out of the room into the hall. He sat down on one of the visitor chairs, glancing up the hall where Greg was limping towards Diagnostics. "Doctor Wilson," he said.

Wilson sat down next to him. "I'm afraid Greg is... unruly."

Crandall shrugged. "If he can figure out what's wrong with Leona, why should I care?" He smiled at Wilson. "Look, I talked about this with Doctor Cuddy, she gave me permission for private interviews. I get that he's really just Diagnostics equipment now, that's fine."

Wilson frowned at him. Crandall met his eyes with apparent candor. "Really," he said again. "I'm just here to find out what's wrong with my daughter."

"Doctor Cuddy told me that she'd given you permission to talk directly with Greg," Wilson said. "Greg's under my care and control: any private interviews you want to have with him have to be arranged via me."

"Really?" Crandall gave him a wide-eyed, considering look. "Okay. But I still get to talk with him in private, right? This is my daughter we're talking about. Patient confidentiality."

"Of course you can talk with him in private," Wilson said. "So long as I'm there too."

"You're the head of the oncology department," Crandall said, surprising Wilson: Crandall nodded and gave a little smile; "I did the research. You've got to be a pretty busy guy. What if I need to talk with him about something and you're not available?"

"Anything you say to one of the Diagnostic fellows will be communicated very accurately to Greg," Wilson said. He got up, glanced through the window at Leona. "I'm sure your daughter will be better soon."

Greg had been very cooperative last night. Very cooperative, almost enthusiastic. He'd knelt to go down on Wilson almost as soon as they were in the door, and after supper Wilson had enjoyed a long blow-job on the couch - he'd made sure that Greg was in a comfortable position throughout, putting no strain on his leg. Wilson had given Greg a long hot bath and put him to bed in good time: he'd taken care when he fucked Greg to put no strain on his leg. This had been the first time in quite a while he'd taken Greg home - since the debacle with the hood and the dildos - and Wilson had decided in advance that there would be nothing that night but gentle handling and careful sex. There was no reason why Greg's leg should hurt worse today, and Wilson was half-convinced he was faking it, despite what Nurse Brenda said.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Brenda let Cuddy know when Greg came back to do another clinic shift. "His leg still hurts, but he's managing to stand still for long enough to treat each patient. I've told him to go walk the length of the clinic and back again between each patient."

"Next time he finishes with a patient, send him over to my office. Not urgently."

Greg appeared about ten minutes later. Cuddy didn't make him kneel.

"You didn't tell anyone else what I'm doing?"

To avoid personal and professional complications, Cuddy was going for fertility treatment at Princeton General. She hadn't intended for anyone at PPTH to find out until - if - _until_ she had to decide how much time she was going to take off to have the baby. That Greg had figured it out from a packet of red clover she was taking as a herbal booster, shouldn't have surprised her.

Vogler had said they were handling Greg wrong: that whipping him just made him feel like he'd won.

"No," Greg said. He stood leaning on his cane, looking at her impassively.

"You must realize that you've been generally healthier since Doctor Wilson tagged you," she told him. "Every health check's shown a significant improvement. Before he tagged you, every health check showed you worse off."

"Peachy."

"Did you tell Wilson what I'm doing?"

"No. He and I don't talk much."

"Cameron? Any of your fellows?"

"No," Greg said. "I'm a really good secret-keeper. I never told anybody that Wilson wets his bed." Just as Cuddy was about to react, he added, without a change of expression, "Oh, you tricked me."

"If you can demonstrate that you can behave professionally without Wilson's care and control," Cuddy said, deciding to ignore that, "I can consider whether I let Wilson know he should take his tag off of you."

Greg's eyes widened. He looked wary.

"I want you to look over these and give me your professional, confidential opinion on them." She pushed the two files towards the edge of her desk. "It's just a couple of medical histories, one with a minor cancer concern. And ... part of the protocol for in vitro fertilization is twice-daily injections of menotropins. I can't do it myself." She'd tried, twice, and had considered asking Brenda to help, and then decided she couldn't deal with even Brenda's concern. Someone who was on the spot, indifferent, impersonal - the hospital owned someone like that. .

"No problem," Greg said after a moment. "Right now?"

"No," Cuddy said. She'd thought about this. "You'll come to my office twice a day at eight and at six."

"All right." Greg picked up the folders and began to look through them.

"When you have a chance," Cuddy said. "No hurry."

Greg looked up from the folders and his eyes were hard and blue. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. He nodded. Instead of tucking the folders under his arm, as he usually would, he carried them in his free hand as he limped back out. He was holding them so that only the blank side of the folder was visible.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Crandall knocked on Wilson's office door and went in. "Hi, I want to ask your permission to give something to Greg, I figure it might help."

"I've got a patient in five minutes," Wilson told him.

"Sure, fine, I don't want to have a conversation with him." Crandall produced the book he'd written about Jesse Baker. "I want to let him have this, lots of background detail about the studio and Leona's mom." There was a CD that went with the book, and Crandall had picked up a cheap CD player, too. He'd glanced through the glass wall of the Diagnostics department before he walked into Wilson's office, and there were none of the junior doctors there, only Greg sitting by himself in a cubby-hole at the back.

Wilson took the book, riffled through it, and handed it back. "Okay," he said. "I'll let him listen to the CD tonight."

"Thanks, man," Crandall said appreciatively. "Greg has a pretty good life here, doesn't he?"

"Well, we try," Wilson said, seeming pleased. "He's very valuable, he needs a lot of care."

"Yeah, you've got him tagged, haven't you?" Crandall hadn't seen the tag - he hadn't seen Greg's collar under those rolltops Greg was always wearing - but he knew he'd guessed right what 'care and control' meant when Wilson actually blushed a little.

"Well, yes - Greg - "

"Hey, man," Crandall said, smiling, keeping his voice pleasant. "Not a problem. I'm sure you take good care of him."

"Thanks," Wilson said, with almost a shy smile. He really was pretty good looking. "I authorized the search for a bone marrow match for your daughter on the register - I'm sure we'll find a match for her soon."

Crandall waited till the patient arrived before he went into Diagnostics. By that time he'd built up a fair head of steam. Greg was sitting on a reclining chair with his legs up: he looked tired.

"Pretty sure you're not supposed to be here," he told Crandall.

"If my daughter needs bone marrow, why are you looking at a bone marrow registry?"

"Because that's where they keep the bone marrow," Greg said, very mildly.

"I'm her father!"

"How does someone who believes absolutely everything become a nonfiction writer?" Greg asked, and Crandall knew suddenly that Greg wasn't kidding, wasn't being mean, he really, literally, did not believe that Leona was Crandall's daughter.

"Test my bone marrow," Crandall said.

"Here's how this is going to end," Greg said. "One day you'll be sitting at your computer writing one of your little music books, and your daughter will come home with a big, angry policeman who will throw you in jail because, 'Daddy touched my poozle.'"

"Test me," Crandall repeated angrily.

Greg sat up, using his hands to move his right leg. "Happy to," he said.

"Just my marrow - I'm not authorizing a paternity test," Crandall said, spotting the trap.

"You're not afraid of the truth?" Greg asked.

"I know the truth!" Crandall said.

"Easy lay feigns truth, and says she needs a bus ticket home to visit her sick grandma. You gave her a hundred bucks. She bought weed. I know, because I told her you d go for the sick grandma story."

Crandall's jaw dropped. He remembered Deba, he'd been pleased and happy she'd come to him for help. They'd had sex - she and he, she and Greg -

Greg's story couldn't be true. "If our friendship means anything to you - "

Greg stood up and limped over to his desk. "Come on, do you know me at all?" He sat down behind the desk.

"If you do the test," Crandall said, sitting down on the visitors chair, putting the bag with the books and the CD player on the desk, "One of two things happens: either you're right, or I'm right. If you're right, I'll be miserable, and if I'm right, I'll hate myself because I didn't trust her! Either way, I lose."

"Pretty sure you're not supposed to be in here without my keeper," Greg said after a moment.

"Doctor Wilson's got a patient," Crandall said. "He said I could give you this." He pulled out the book about Jesse Baker and shoved it across the desk at Greg. "Lots of background. Call it research. There's another book I wrote about New Orleans sixteen years ago. And I got you a CD player, I figured you wouldn't have one."

"Yeah, Santa forgot to deliver last year."

There was a pause. Greg reached for the bag and started to empty it out.

"You don't like him much, do you?" Crandall asked. He hadn't meant to say it. There wasn't anything he could do about it.

Greg had taken the CD player out of its carton and was plugging it in. "Don't have any reason to," he said, not looking at Crandall. "Go find one of my peeps and tell them you want to get your marrow tested."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Greg was listening to the CD that came with Crandall's book on a cheap player. He twitched guiltily as Wilson came into the room with lunch - it looked as if he'd thought of pushing it into a drawer and realised he couldn't get away with it.

"We'll take the book home, you can listen to the CD on my sound system," Wilson told him benevolently. He started unpacking lunch on Greg's desk. "So why were you friends with this guy?"

Greg's looked at the dish without favor. "It's brown, it s lumpy... I'm going to heave all over my desk."

"Chicken mole. Twenty-one herbs and spices." It was delicious. Wilson handed it to Greg with a plastic fork. "I find it very interesting, you defending a man you haven t seen in years."

"I'm not defending him," Greg said, prodding at the chicken with a fork, "I'm smacking her."

"Is he a match?

"No. Lying girl lucked out and found one in the registry."

"Is he the dad?"

Greg looked up with widened eyes. "I don't _think_ so."

"You didn't run the test?"

"How could I?" Greg looked suspiciously at the food. "Not within the purview of the Diagnostics department, as you said yourself."

"We both know that you could arrange to run the test if you wanted to. But if you do the paternity test, and it comes back negative and you shove it in the guy s face, you hurt him and his ... not-daughter. Or it comes back positive, and you're proved wrong. And you don't like that."

"Or I never run the test." Greg ate a mouthful. He looked fairly surprised. "Tastes like... chicken."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Greg was playing the part of the CD when Jesse, badtempered and drunk, interrupted his own playing with a demand to get the piano tuned.

"Are you going to be able to keep that?" Crandall asked.

"Doubt it," Greg said, switching it off. "Does my keeper know you're in here?"

"No. Doctor Foreman said you wanted to talk to me."

Greg glanced away uneasily. "Yeah. The good news is Leona doesn t have an autoimmune condition, so she doesn t need a bone marrow transplant and we were able to stop the radiation in time." He looked back at Crandall. "The bad news: she has potty mouth. Her liver is failing, she's made her digestive system go in reverse. It's actually much worse than it sounds. We need to do a liver biopsy. I don't know what s going to happen when we stick a needle into her liver, but she could die right then and there."

Crandall felt it in his gut, like a knife. Leona, dead. He'd been planning ahead, thinking he could clear all the junk out of the room he used for archives, into storage or throw it out, take Leona shopping for furniture, they could paint the room together. He'd find her a good school. He ducked his head, rubbed his eyes. "You need to tell me what to do."

"No inside information on this one," Greg said. "But Crandall, three days ago you didn't even know this girl. If she'd been hit by a bus you wouldn t lose a moment s sleep. There are people all over this hospital who are in just as much trouble and just as not related to you."

Crandall looked up wearily. "You telling me I shouldn't care? Prep me to handle it, in case she dies?"

The conference door opened. Doctor Wilson came in. He looked annoyed when he saw Crandall, and waved him out. Crandall went back to sit next to Leona. He couldn't do anything, but she was his daughter. He had a responsibility to be there.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

The menotropin shot was prepared. Greg came in on time, clutching both folders. Cuddy stood up.

Greg put the folders down on her desk. "Turn around."

He was professional and careful: he used an alcohol swab to clean a patch, and gave her the shot neatly in her behind. "Thanks," Cuddy said, pulling down her clothes. "Twice a day. Do you have a report on the files?"

"Interesting reading," Greg said.

"Those are my top two choices for sperm donors. I wanted your medical opinion on genetics."

Greg was leaning on his cane, his knuckles white.

"1284 has a cousin that tested positive for the BRACA gene - "

"But his mother was negative, which means so's your baby," Greg said. "The Mediterranean-Dutch factor on the dad s side is not a problem, because his dad's mother didn t carry the thalassemia gene. You got the sperm from the government."

"I haven't got it yet, I'm checking out possibilities. I decided to go with the largest choice of options, guaranteed clean and thoroughly tested. Both 1284 and 613 have four living grandparents - "

"They're all losers."

"Uh, medically, or - "

"You're getting your sperm from the involuntary donors at the New Jersey Slave Bank. Nice and fresh, of course, none of those pesky problems with frozen sperm. Choose fast and you can get it delivered to your door newly milked. To you they're furniture. Cleaning equipment. Medical equipment. You wouldn't give either of them the time of day. But you're planning to make a baby with them."

Cuddy's jaw dropped. Greg lifted his chin. "I don't care if you marry this guy, date this guy, go through his garbage, but you should know genes matter. Who you are matters. Don't just stick a beaker in a cage and turn on a tap. Find somebody you trust." He waited for a moment, but as Cuddy was still speechless, he turned to go.

"Assuming I'm not otherwise occupied," he threw over his shoulder, "I'll see you for your next shot."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Doctor Foreman came in and put Leona on a new drip. "Amphotericin B with colony stimulating factors," he told Crandall. "She picked the fungus up when she was living in the studio. She's going to be fine."

In the studio? When Leona had found Crandall, she had told him she was living in one of the children's shelters in Ridgeland. She had said she hated the studio with all that had gone on there, all her grandfather's drinking and her mom's drug-taking, and she'd never wanted to go back. "She said she'd never go back there," Crandall whispered.

"She lied to you," Doctor Foreman said. He gave Crandall a measuring look. "She's your kid get used to it."

Right at the end of the day, Greg came in. He didn't talk to Crandall - Doctor Wilson was waiting outside, Crandall realised - but he gave Leona a thorough examination and finally said "Pretty much normal. Liver function tests are good."

"Thanks, G-man."

They looked at each other. Greg asked "What makes you think you'd be a good father?"

"I don't know. Feels right. It feels good."

"Well, at least you've got a good reason."

"It feels good is a good enough reason." Crandall was trying to think of something more to say, something that he could say to Greg with Greg's keeper outside the door, when Leona begins to choke and gasp around the thing in her mouth. "What's happening?"

"She s choking, she can t breathe. Get out of here, will you? Out!"

Crandall retreated. Greg pulled the curtain to cut off view of Leona, and he was standing outside in the hall with Doctor Wilson, who had a leash in one hand and looked vaguely embarrassed.

Crandall looked at the leash. He still hadn't seen Greg's collar, but he supposed it had those little doohickeys on it. He swallowed, passing a hand over his mouth, and stared at Doctor Wilson.

"Leona's going to be OK," he told him, because that was the first thing on his mind.

"Good," Doctor Wilson said. "I'm glad." He sounded like he meant it, too: he sounded like he was compassionate and caring. But he was planning to clip that leash onto Greg's collar and take him away.

"I don't do the hard-hitting exposes," Crandall said. "Jesse Baker's daughter was mad at me because I said her father was a drunk, but he was, and everyone who knew him would have said the same."

"Well?"

"Doctor Cuddy let me see Greg because I convinced her I didn't want to write a book about this place, about Greg. I could. I got a lot of material on him, just what's publicly available, and it would be quite a story. Medical genius goes into debt, gets sold, founds new medical speciality as a slave in a teaching hospital." Crandall had been mentally writing the pitch to his agent. But he rubbed his face again, looked at the leash, looked at Wilson's face. He was frowning now, didn't look so nice and friendly. "But it's not what I came here to do. I wanted to save my daughter's life, and I'm not going to pay this hospital back by doing an expose. Anyway if I did they'd just sell Greg, and I don't see that would do him any good."

Wilson was still frowning. "Well?"

"Well. Want you to know. Wish I could write it. Just to tear you a new one." Crandall jerked his hand at the leash. "G-man made a mess of his life, back then. No way he deserves getting put on a leash and screwed over by you every night, though."

The door opened and Greg came out. He looked at Crandall. "She's breathing on her own now. We're even."

Crandall glanced at Wilson. The man looked actually flustered. He looked at Crandall, looked at Greg, pointed down the hall.

Greg swallowed. He glanced at Crandall, but he didn't say anything more. He just followed Wilson, down the hall.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Cuddy took the elevator up to Diagnostics. She'd expected it to be empty - she planned to leave the message on the desk in the back office - but Greg was there, in his reclining chair, listening to a contraband CD player that he switched off as soon as she came in.

"Crandall gave it to me."

"Don't play it in office hours or I might have to notice it exists," Cuddy told him. It would be one more thing to take away if she needed to punish Greg. She wasn't anxious to impose another whipping until enough time had passed that she wouldn't have to add the fifty lashes she'd exempted him from after Stacy Warner left. She hesitated, and finally said, formally, "Thank you for the injections."

"You're welcome." Greg looked surprised. "You came all the way up here just to tell me that?"

"No." Cuddy handed him a leaflet and went out again before she had to see his reaction. It was surprisingly difficult to find a sperm donor bank that didn't rely at least in part on slaves: but she'd guessed one must exist, somewhere in the US, and she'd found it. They'd ship to her frozen, at far greater cost. But he was right: when she'd thought about it, about the slaves the hospital owned and the others she saw every day, nameless and faceless: she could not have tolerated knowing that her child had been fathered by one of them.

Either Doctor Wilson would have to be told to take his tag off Greg's collar, or Greg himself would have to be made happier with the arrangement. The latter would be preferable, but probably a lot more work. She wondered why Wilson hadn't taken Greg home tonight.

_tba_

_And the very last episode of this season is next..._


	23. No Reason

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee... And we're at the end of the second season!_

**2.23 No Reason**

From eight to twelve, in the clinic, House was almost completely safe. It was boring medical work - anything very serious that wandered in by mistake was supposed to be directed over to ER. Once in a while there'd be something funny or interesting or even annoying, but mostly it was just safe.

Safe. Wilson couldn't get to him.

House went to the door and called "Next!" and a man in the waiting area with a huge fat-lipped mouth got to his feet.

He had a temperature of 102.5, and he wasn't fat-lipped: his tongue was grossly swollen. He managed to tell House it had happened at a lunch meeting, and got enough grotesquely uttered answers out to let House take a patient history.

House gave him an epi shot and amused himself while he waited to see if it would take effect, by asking Fat-Tongued Guy all the questions he could think of: it was like watching Harpo Marx. (Was it Harpo he was thinking of? He hadn't seen a Marx Brothers movie in seventeen years.)

If the epi shot took effect, it was an allergy. If it didn't, it was either an infection or a toxin, and the man would have to be admitted overnight (he wouldn't like that - he'd have come to the free clinic rather than ER because ER cost money and he was probably uninsured) and they'd administer a broad-spectrum antibiotic. If the swelling didn't go down with the antibiotic, it likely would overnight when he was removed from the toxin. Only if the tongue failed to go down after twenty-four hours would anyone think of asking the Diagnostics department for a clue.

The epi shot had no effect. House gave up on the questions. None of the answers had produced any clear evidence of a toxin. Nor was there any indication of how Fat Lips could have picked up an infection with this kind of effect. It was still probably one or the other, but House was genuinely curious which.

If he turned Fat Lips over ER, there'd be an overnight stay to pay for. If he declared Fat Lips to be a Diagnostics case, the hospital generally found ways to pay for Diagnostics department patients, even uninsured ones.

Plus, if he had a patient, Wilson would have to leave him at the hospital overnight. Win win win, really.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

"He's got a temperature of 103," House informed his fellows. It had gone up by half a point by the time the admitting nurse had given up on getting a thermometer into Fat Lips' mouth and gone per rectum.

"And why do we care?"

House put on a sweet voice, because nothing would annoy Foreman more. "Because we re human beings. It's what we do." He ran through the patient history. Before he'd finished, Foreman was getting up, putting his laptop into his Mr-I-Am-A-Professional briefcase, and shrugging on his jacket. "Where're you going?"

"You're an ass," Foreman said grimly.

"I know," House acknowledged. "Where're you going?"

Foreman turned round and gave him a look that said House had _really_ managed to annoy him this time, and without even trying very hard. "This is either a toxin, infection, or an allergic reaction. I assume you gave him epi, so that rules out allergies. Put him on antibiotics in case it's an infection, and if it s a toxin we ll keep him here overnight, let the swelling go down, send him home. I'm going to the movies."

House was only half-impressed. Cameron was going to stick around because she was obsessive about him. Chase was clearly going to stick around because he assumed if House was interested there must be something else to it. Foreman was right, but not as curious as House thought he should be. He'd have asked Foreman what was showing, but the door opened and a free man walked in. He didn't look like hospital staff.

"Which one of you is House?" he asked.

"Skinny brunette," House said.

"No, that's Doctor Cameron," the free man said.

"I'm skinny. How do you know her name?"

"I was a patient of yours," the free man said.

House sometimes literally never saw a patient of his, but more often he saw them only through glass walls or when they were unconscious. He didn't recognise this man at all. It was probably impolite to ask him what disease he'd been diagnosed with. Anyway he'd evidently recovered. And he was quite evidently angry about something. Most of the patients House had that survived were too happy to have lived to be angry about anything.

The main thing was that he'd called him "Doctor House", so at least he couldn't know House was a slave. Anyone who did would have said "Greg" or "slave" or worse. Security would be here in a few minutes to move this free man into Cuddy's office where he could lay a complaint and in an hour or so Cuddy would be up here and House would find out what the punishment was for whatever it was he'd done.

"Oh, well, if you want to leave the chocolates downstairs - " House said.

The ex-patient walked towards him quickly. House saw him pull the thing out of his jacket and knew it was a gun and couldn't think what he should do about it. The gun was just there, in the man's hand, a small gun, and when he fired it made a big noise, and at first House thought the man must have missed because there was no pain, but he'd fallen over, he was lying on his back on the floor looking up at the man and the room was darker, it was night time suddenly, and there was another big noise and then there _was_ pain. He thought the ex-patient was saying something to him but he could not think what it was. Words.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

Nothing hurt. That was what woke him.

He had a morphine drip in his arm. He was lying on his back in a wonderfully comfortable hospital bed. His leg didn't hurt. Nothing hurt, but he wasn't numb: he could feel the bed yielding underneath him, the covers light and warm over him. He wasn't even manacled. He wasn't collared.

He opened his eyes. He was still in PPTH. Cameron was sitting next to the bed. No one else was in his field of view until he moved his head, and if he moved his head it would be obvious he was awake. Once he was awake it was only a matter of time before he was sent to the slave ward.

The only cuff on him was a hospital bracelet made out of strong plastic. He wasn't wearing a collar, he wasn't chained, he wasn't shackled. He moved his hand the short distance to check, feeling at his stubble. No illusion. His hand moved normally. Also, he hadn't been groomed for two or three days. Nor, from the oily buildup in her hair, had Cameron.

He wasn't collared. He wasn't shackled. But the cuff on his hand identified him by a number that began 56025, so the collar was probably removed only so that they could operate, or maybe for an MRI.

Cameron was probably planning some great caring scene. "You're pathetic," House said out loud, turning his head to look directly at Cameron. Cameron put down her book (a novel, one of ten bestsellers currently for sale in the gift store). House moved his hand conspicuously to rub the side of his face. "Judging by the growth, I'd say I've been unconscious for two days. You've been sitting there the whole time."

"No," Cameron said, in automatic denial, and he called her on the lie.

That annoyed her, but Cameron and Chase were the only two free people in the hospital whose annoyance House didn't fear. He moved on to the really important question. "Did I lose any organs?" The hospital would rather remove than repair.

"The bullet to your abdomen pierced your stomach, nicked the bowel, and lodged in the posterior rib."

Cameron poured him some water. Evidently his stomach and bowel were by now healed up enough for him to drink. That was reassuring, and that was probably why Cameron had done it. House accepted the glass. The water felt good in his mouth, and he didn't seem to have a problem swallowing. "Well, I always say, if you're going to get shot, do it in a hospital."

"The one in your neck - " Cameron started to say.

"I don t remember that one," House said. Didn't remember it, sort of remembered it: he thought the man had said something to him, bending over him, and that was when he had -

" - went right through, severed your jugular. The shooter turns out to be a guy who - "

"Don't care," House interrupted. A free man who'd risk his freedom to get even with a doctor who had saved his life? Moron.

"You don't care why a guy walked into a hospital and shot a doctor? Shot_ you?_" Cameron sounded surprised.

"I assume his reasoning was faulty," House said. Whatever the guy's problems, there was no way that shooting the Diagnostics slave could make it better. "So what was it? Infection?"

"The surgery went fine."

They'd operated on Fat-Mouth?

"You've had no post-op - "

"Not me," House corrected. "Patient. Harpo."

"You just got shot," Cameron said. "You should rest."

"I got shot. Diagnostically boring," House pointed out to her. "Big fat tongue, on the other hand, endlessly entertaining."

"We biopsied his tongue," Cameron said.

That was weird. If the swelling hadn't got down, it wasn't an ordinary infection and it wasn't a toxin. And his fellows hadn't been able to figure it out from routine blood tests, which Cameron would certainly have ruled they should do before they tried a very painful tongue biopsy. Or a lumbar puncture. Why hadn't they done a lumbar puncture? Presumably, because of increased intra-cranial pressure. _That_ was interesting.

In the Diagnostics conference room, with Chase and Foreman there as well, House would have got the three fellows to work it out for themselves, but Cameron's gifts as a diagnostician, such as they were, were in her ability to take a patient history and get them to tell her things they'd never meant to tell anyone. He explained it to her. Just as he got her to follow how he knew about the increased intra-cranial pressure, the door opened and another patient was wheeled in.

Cameron said "He was shot by Security trying to - " just as House realised who the other patient was: the free man who'd shot him.

He would be under arrest - maybe even for assault, if he'd shot a security guard. But at least, for vandalism, for damaging House. _Major_ vandalism, if he'd killed House. Two shots. He must have come close to killing House. Somehow House was too numb to care.

This was the high security ward. On the rare occasions House had been sick enough to be allowed treatment in the upper part of the hospital instead of being restrained in one of the slave wards, he'd been put here. If there was a prisoner here already, a free person, House wouldn't usually have been allowed to share the facilities with them. This time he was allowed. Because this was the free man who was going to be prosecuted by the hospital for expensive vandalism to diagnostic equipment. As an object lesson in how useful the equipment vandalised was.

There was a morphine drip in his arm. On a stand that House could move himself, and lean on for support, just as if they'd left him a cane. And nothing hurt. Best of all - win win win - after two bullet wounds such as Cameron described, there was no way that Cuddy could afford to order him whipped: she'd be nervous about so much as having him caned.

"Greg!" Cameron sounded frantic. She didn't physically try to stop him from unhooking the monitor wires, and the nurse assigned to the other bed clearly had orders not to leave it. There would be security guards outside. But with any luck, they'd have no orders to stop him leaving the ward and they'd certainly have orders to handle him very very carefully. Really, he could move around the hospital just as he chose. "Will you - " Cameron really sounded like she was starting to panic. "Greg!"

"I'm talking to Doctor Cuddy." Right now, and until the bullet wounds were healed up, House was free to go where he wanted and do what he wanted. He didn't even have a collar on. Wilson's tag was gone.

"Lie down, you've got to be in pain!"

"Not today," House said, walking out of the ward, "today I'm on morphine."

"You're going to rip your stitches out," Cameron protested.

"Check Harpo's trash," House threw at her as a distraction. They needed to check the patient's lymph nodes: start with the one under the jaw.

"Forget about the patient!" Cameron snapped.

House kept going. Cameron was following. "Come on, you're curious. Trash. You don t know what I'm talking about, but you know it's good."

There were two security guards. They eyed House with a kind of curiosity, but didn't move from their station, even when he and Cameron started arguing over whether he should be walking around and whether Cameron could stop him. She actually tried to physically stop him before he could reach the elevators. "I'm twice your size," he pointed out, "get your hands off me." He pressed the elevator button. This was like being free.

"Everything that lives, eats; everything that eats, poops: that s why every organ has a sanitation department, a lymph system. Whatever s doing the damage is dumping its waste in there. That s what you meant by trash."

House nodded and stepped into the elevator. Before the doors closed, he told Cameron, "Biopsy the lymph node under the jaw."

Doctor Cuddy walked him into the ICU and stood over him as he got back into bed.

The free man in the other bed was awake. Doctor Cuddy said "Sorry, I know it s crazy, but there's no other place. The ICU stands for intensive care, he needs intensive care, so do you."

The man's voice was faint, but kind of gravelly. "He needs to be shot again."

Doctor Cuddy seemed to flinch a little. She looked at House and spoke to him for the first time. "He is handcuffed to his bed, he is sedated, he is not going to hurt you."

"If your security was any good I wouldn't have been shot in the first place." Something was puzzling him. He fiddled with the morphine drip. "Who did my surgery?"

"Gillick. Why?"

"He screwed up."

"Greg, you're an addict. Quit upping your morphine or we'll take you off the drip."

"I'm not." House stretched his legs in the bed, enjoying their movement. "I'm reducing it."

"And you're not in pain?" Cuddy sounded ... wondering.

"I'm feeling better."

"Gillick is very good. Your recovery time - "

"My stomach kills me, my neck is throbbing, my leg feels better," House reported.

"That's amazing." Cuddy sounded like she meant it.

"It's unbelievable," House said. He meant it. "Since getting shot is not a FDA-approved treatment for anything, it means something must have gone wrong in the surgery."

"Yes," Cuddy said. She sounded amused now. "Terribly, tragically wrong. Enjoy the mistake."

"He must have nicked something in my peripheral nervous system. If it's alleviating pain, who knows what else it's doing."

"If you leave the ICU again and rip out your stitches, I will have you chained to your bed." Doctor Cuddy walked out. House and the free man were alone together. House promptly got out of bed again and looked at the chart at the end of the other bed. Jack somebody. He didn't recognise the name. He didn't have a clue who this guy was, yet apparently he'd done something while treating him that the patient had wanted to kill him for. It was a puzzle. Since there was no one here to stop him, House dialled the man's morphine drip down a few.

In a matter of minutes, the man's eyes twitched again and he woke.

"Why did you try to kill me?" House asked.

"I didn't," the man said.

That was funny. "Then the gun thing might have been a mistake."

"If I'd've killed you it would have been over. I need you to live because I want to see you suffer."

House wondered if he'd get a better answer out of the guy if he unplugged the morphine drip altogether. It was odd they'd been left alone this long, even in a well-monitored ward. Still, so long as they were going to leave the slave and the guy who'd shot him alone together, with the guy who'd shot him cuffed to the bed...

House was back in bed when all three fellows came in. Jack the Killer was asleep, or more likely trying to sleep, in the other bed. No one had yet noticed his morphine feed was unplugged.

"House," Cameron said urgently and very quietly. "The test was negative."

"Are you sure you want to be doing this?" Chase asked.

"I'm fine, I think," House said. He was contemplating another break from the ICU. No one could do anything to him: it might burst his stitches. An opportunity not to be missed. "Cameron, you got my records?"

Cameron said, still quietly, "They don't like to release patients' operative notes."

"And yet you're holding them," House noted. "And whispering."

Cameron glanced at Jack the Killer. "He's sleeping."

House raised his voice a notch. "Yeah. Killer needs his rest. Otherwise he's grumpy all day." He raised his voice another level. "Hey! _Wake up!_ Watch me save a life!"

Foreman's voice held the flat affect he put on when he was genuinely interested and trying not to sound too enthused. "Almost for sure it's some sort of infection. We've got him on broad-spectrum antibiotics, but it's not even slowing the thing down. Unless we find out what type of infection, we can't treat, and we can't figure out what type because we can t do an LP."

That was easy. They'd already had to do a tracheotomy. "Do an LP." He looked at Jack. "See what I did there? Couldn't have done that if you killed me."

"We would have done an LP two days ago if we could have but that much pressure... something s bound to go - "

"We would have done an LP two days ago if the risks hadn t so obviously outweighed the benefits," Chase said. "We just cut a hole in his throat. The equation has changed."

House glanced at Chase. It sounded like Chase was quoting him from some earlier case, though he couldn't at the moment recall which one. "Couldn't have put it better myself," House said.

He was alone with Jack the Killer and his surgical notes.

The notes were not terribly interesting. Removing a bullet was a standard operation: the only thing House learned was that the collar had come off before Gillick operated: a surgical resident named Wilson had removed it. It was a fairly common name. House looked uneasily at the door. Wilson had right of access to him and House was surprised/relieved/surprised he wasn't here.

Jack the Killer was awake. "You wanna hear a story?"

House glanced at him. If Wilson did come to enjoy the bullet wounds while they were fresh, Killer would be right there. "I have a rule," he said dismissively. "People who shoot me forfeit the right to - "

"My wife was sick," Jack interrupted. "None of the doctors could figure out why."

"Oh, I know this story," House said. Jack hadn't been his patient: his wife had. No wonder he didn't remember him. "She died, so you selected one of her doctors to kill because that would make everything OK again." There had been a boy once whom House had refused as a patient: he had already been diagnosed, and the disease was incurable. The boy had died and the boy's father had tried to buy House with the intention of breaking every bone in his body. He'd been arrested when he tried to kidnap one of House's fellows to force the sale. House knew the story because Stacy had told him. He had no idea how many other angry people might have tried to buy him, but Cuddy wouldn't sell.

"No, she lived. You cured her."

"I'm truly sorry I did that," House retorted.

"In the course of investigating her illness, you convinced me that everything was relevant. You needed the truth. I confessed to you that I had had an affair. But it turns out it had nothing to do with why she was sick. Genetic predisposition to brain aneurysms. You told her that. You also told her about my affair."

House did remember the patient now. Syphilis had distracted even Foreman from the real cause of her illness. The husband - House must have spoken to him directly, but he still didn't remember him - had been putting on a show of being a loyal and devoted husband that had fooled Cameron completely, and even Chase and Foreman had been reluctant to believe that the woman's syphilis was a recent infection from her husband, not an old infection from before her marriage.

Jack the Killer was cuffed to his bed. Under the circumstances, no one was going to make him pay for being insolent to a free person. "You caught crap," House said contemptuously. Syphilis was curable. "She left you. Now I ve got to pay because you couldn t keep your little Killer in your pants?"

"She killed herself," the Killer said.

There was suicide mesh under the balcony for the Diagnostics office. It had been there since House had been bought. Slaves weren't allowed to kill themselves just because life had become unbearable.

Each operating theater at PPTH had an observation window, which was normally used by staff who wanted to audit the procedure: they were useful when more students than could be accommodated in the theater wanted to observe. A very beautiful woman was watching Foreman and Chase performing an LP on Fat-Mouth. They were evidently taking no chances with this high-risk patient. She wasn't anyone House knew - and she wasn't a medical student. She was wearing a business suit with heels. Work colleague from that business lunch? She seemed a bit young to be his boss. She could be a relative - if he were Cameron and obsessive about family history, he'd know whether Fat-Lip had sisters.

House walked up behind her and asked, intending to take her by surprise, "What sort of hospital has glass walls?"

The woman glanced at him and then looked back at the procedure. "It's my husband."

That was surprising. Even before Fat-Lip had got a swollen mouth, he hadn't been anywhere close to this woman on the loveliness scale. He wasn't rich enough to have a trophy wife. And she'd never breast-fed even for a few days - could be she had bottle-fed all of her rugrats, but if she'd given birth in New Jersey any time in the past five years, she'd have been strongly encouraged to at least give breast-feeding a try.

The woman looked at him with a wry expression. Evidently he'd let slip his reaction. "You thought I just liked watching people get needles poked in their back?"

"No, I just figured a co-worker or sister, not wife."

Wry turned to suspicion. "Why?"

"Don't worry, it's not insulting. At least, not to you."

She nodded and turned back to look at the LP procedure. She hadn't commented on House's attire - he was still wearing the hospital gown, still leaning on the morphine pump like a cane. She hadn't looked at his neck, and it must be obvious, despite the wound dressing - the metal collar had gripped him tight for years - that he had till recently worn a collar. She had just nodded. House asked, "You're satisfied with that answer?"

She glanced at him again. "You're Doctor House, aren't you?"

"You're not going to shoot me, are you?"

The woman ignored that. "You treated a friend of mine. She told me you only talk to people if you have to, and then you insult them while showing off how insightful you are."

The world was full of ex-patients he didn't remember. House explained to her as if she were one of his fellows, "Sevens marry sevens, nines marry nines, fours marry fours. Maybe there's some wiggle room if there s enough money or if somebody got pregnant. But you ve got at least three points on your husband and your frock says he didn t do it for the money and your breasts say you haven t had any kids."

The woman didn't look away from the procedure, but he saw the corners of her mouth curl up. "So you figure my marriage is a mathematical error."

"Numbers don't lie. We're having trouble finding out what infection your husband has. The most likely culprit is an STD." That had only just occurred to House, but it should have occurred to him earlier, even without the reminder of Jack the Killer's wife and the syphilis that had been his present to her.

The woman looked at him full-on. Her voice was level, faintly ironic. "You want to know if I've had an affair with someone closer to my integer and I have to tell you the truth or my husband will die."

"Is your friend single?" House asked.

"No," the woman said, unsmiling. "But I've always been faithful."

Inside the theater, Chase and Foreman were rotating Fat-Mouth back into position, after doing the longest slowest LP in the world. There was a streak of red on Fat-Lips face, and something funny happening to one of his eyes. House leaned closer to the wall, trying to figure out what had happened, why Chase and Foreman were looking so panicked.

"What's going on? What are they doing?" the woman asked.

There was a tearing pain in his abdomen. His gown felt wet. "I should go," House told her faintly. "I seem to have torn my stitches." The floor seemed a very long way away as he was falling down to it.

In the slave ward, breakfast was a nourishing, tasteless mush that slaves would be given with a feeding tube if they refused to finish their assigned portion. In the ICU, free patients got pancakes, and so did House. They tasted delicious. He was handcuffed to the bed, but they'd used his left wrist, so it didn't even slow him up.

"You collapsed in the hall," Jack the Killer said. He had pancakes too. "Tore your stitches."

"I remember," House told him. "I was there."

"How's your gut?" Killer asked. "It's hurting?"

House spared him a glance. He didn't seem to have much appetite for his pancakes. Before Wilson, this would have been creepy. But Killer didn't sound like a guy who knew much about enjoying pain. "You shoot the guy who sold her the gun?" he asked.

"She locked herself in the garage and she started the car." Killer didn't sound like a guy who was grieving his wife, either. House was beginning to hate this ward.

"You shoot the guy who sold her the garage door opener?" House asked, testing. He got a smirk. Not a big one. Killer wasn't sad. He had moved on from his wife before she killed herself. And Killer was still cuffed to his bed. "You're an ass."

"Now that is a bold position to take," Killer said, giving House time to process that he had been insolent to a free man but that - just for once - he was unlikely to suffer the slightest penalty for it " - given that I shot you."

"The shooting just makes you an idiot," House said. "You're an ass because you're trying to wrap it in a flag like you did a good thing." If Killer had just walked into the hospital and beaten House, he would still have been liable for vandalism, but he probably wouldn't have been shot himself. Guns made everyone nervous.

"Well, if you kept your mouth shut, she'd be alive and you wouldn't be shot."

"If you kept your pistols in your pants - " House started, but Killer cut across him.

"It's my fault she s dead! I know it. But why can't you admit it s maybe just a little bit yours, too? That maybe it s not just medical mistakes that screw things up?"

"Here's how life works. You either get to ask for an apology, or you get to shoot people. Not both."

There was a Mexican take-out across the street from the hospital. House had seen it many times over the years. He didn't venture in: he sat on the hood of a car and ate a beef taco. It tasted even better than hospital pancakes. Fat-Mouth's eyes had bugged out from his head. That meant it was a bleeding disorder, not an infection. "Infections don t make your eyes pop out," he told his fellows. Which they should know.

"We should get back," Chase said. "You're supposed to be chained to your bed."

"Not done eating. Got to be some sort of bleeding disorder."

"This is really stupid," Cameron said.

There was no way any one would do anything to House to punish him for doing this. The thought made House feel giddy. "Look," he pointed out, "my stitches pop out again, I got three doctors to save me. Could be some sort of weakness in the lining of the ocular veins." No one said anything. House munched on his taco. "Okay, I'll be you guys." He did their voices, in order of seniority, explaining that it couldn't be either a vein or an artery, because a vein wouldn't bleed like that and a bleeding artery would have killed him.

Cameron suggested Wegener's, if there was a giant growth in his sinuses that bled: Chase pointed out that the surgeon who returned the eyeball to its socket would have noticed a growth.

Tongue and eyes showing symptoms, not the nose. So they were both getting sick from a common source, which pointed to the brain, which meant Foreman would have to biopsy the blood-brain barrier. Though it could also be caused by parasitic worms in the brain. Or conceivably by an infection. House ran it past Foreman, interested that Foreman, who didn't usually like House's metaphors, picked up the rather good one about the blood-brain barrier as the snow fence by the side of the road. Cameron, predictably, protested that this was too risky, and got landed with giving Fat-Mouth mebendazole for the possible worm and levoloxacin for a possible infection that had got past the first antibiotic.

"And azithromycin for STDs," Chase put in.

"I really don't think the wife is the kind to be messing around. If I was married to her I certainly wouldn t - "

"House," Cameron said. "The patient isn't married, he's a widower."

House got to use the PT room with other slaves who needed rehab in the early morning. It was late enough in the day for other free people to be in there, but they weren't. House was on the treadmill. Wilson was watching him. The treadmill didn't hurt, and Wilson hadn't cuffed him to it like the overseers did.

"My body is fine," House told him. He wondered if Wilson would always be this friendly if House wasn't in pain all the time. "My mind, on the other hand - " It had to be a hallucination, because there was no way House was going to believe in ghosts.

"Maybe she was a girlfriend," Wilson suggested. "Maybe she was just trying to jerk you around."

"Spoke to every nurse on that floor," House told him, "the patient only had six visitors. Two females, no babes. His mother and his aunt."

"So they missed someone," Wilson said. "They re not Security.

House went on walking. "My posse never saw her or me talking on the other side of the glass."

"They were a little busy," Wilson pointed out, "trying to save the guy s life."

House's operation notes were lying on the chair the overseer used. House got off the treadmill. "There s only one possible conclusion. It was a hallucination." He flipped to the anesthesia section of the notes. "What does that look like to you, a .6?" He held up the chart so Wilson could see it.

"Anesthesia? No, it's got to be 6 smudge. Let's say you re right. It wouldn't be that uncommon after trauma, after that much blood loss."

"My perceptions are compromised and my judgment is compromised," House announced. "What if his wife told me that the patient just got bit by a rabid Vietnamese leopard?"

"So pull yourself off the case," Wilson said. He made no move towards House, he just talked to him, the way he had occasionally talked to House before he tagged him, before he realised how much he enjoyed House's pain. As if he liked House.

House could go tell Cuddy he couldn't work on this case. It was even surprising Cuddy hadn't already ordered him off it. He would be off the case if he were in the slave ward. If he walked off the case, Cuddy probably would order him down to the slave ward for a week's recovery time and then a week on light duty. But then there would be the next Diagnostics patient, and the next. House was useful if he was able to do clinic duty. He was valuable as the Diagnostics equipment.

"You take two weeks. You recover," Wilson told him blandly. Wilson had him tagged, even if the physical tag was lost somewhere in surgery, and he'd won Cuddy's approval with House's recovery after the last whipping. Wilson would supervise his recovery.

"And what if I don't?" House asked. He made his voice not sound scared. "What if it wasn't the shooting?"

"The guy who sees connections between everything sees no connection between being shot and minor brain disruption?"

That was almost something that one of House's fellows might have said. "What if it was the surgery?" House asked himself.

"What if it was the fact that you tore out your stitches and lost two pints of blood?" Wilson retorted.

House looked at his surgical notes again. "Why did Gillick give me ketamine during my surgery?"

Like all the other doctors in the hospital, Doctor Cuddy logged two hours a month in the clinic. She was in Exam Room One. She didn't seem surprised to see House when he opened the door: she only said brusquely "Working."

"We need to talk."

"Get back to the ICU," Cuddy ordered. "Who uncuffed you?"

House ignored that question. "Why would a surgeon administer ketamine?"

"Who showed you your surgical file?"

House meant to ignore that question, but realized he was still holding the file under his arm. "How do you know it's mine?"

"Because your patient hasn't had surgery and you don't care about anyone else."

"My anesthesia was almost non-existent," House said, "and yet I wasn't awake. For some reason, someone decided to put me in a dissociative coma instead of just putting me out."

"There are plenty of reasons to use - " Cuddy said.

House flourished his cane. It was the nice wooden one Stacy had bought him. He interrupted. "Fine. I'll go beat the truth out of my surgeon. Gillick, right?" He turned his back on Cuddy and walked off, expecting to hear her summon security to take him back to ICU.

"It worked!" Cuddy sounded disconcertingly triumphant.

House turned.

Cuddy was staring at him as if he was a successful experiment. "There's a clinic in Germany, they've been treating chronic pain by inducing comas and letting the mind basically reboot itself. There's about a fifty percent chance your pain will come back, which, of course, means there's a fifty percent chance that it won't." She grinned. "We can detox you and make it stick. We may have increased your working life by a decade."

House stared. His hands clenched together on his cane. "You messed with my brain!"

"Why are you so upset?" Cuddy took a step closer. "Are you experiencing any neurological symptoms? Dizziness, tremors, hallucinations?"

"No," House denied. Wilson knew he'd hallucinated. Would he rat Greg out to Cuddy? "It's a point of principle."

Foreman was saying "Test was negative."

"No trash against the fence," Cameron said. She was looking at him with her own kind of obsessive curiosity. "Is your leg really better?"

"Don't worry, I'm sure something else is wrong," House told her.

"We did find blood," Chase mentioned.

"On which side?" House asked.

"The wrong side."

Cancer. Blood shouldn't be in the brain lining, the body would treat it as a foreign object, and try to get rid of it with a fever. That explained the rising temperature. They hadn't considered cancer because the symptoms didn't fit, but now there was one, a pathologic condition of the blood, neoplastic disease - and it hadn't shown up in the lymph systems of the tongue, but the saliva glands of the tongue were connected to the lymph system of the lungs, so check there. _Cancer._

"The first thing that makes sense," House said, giddy with relief. The ketamine Cuddy had dosed her experimental animal with _hadn't_ messed with his brain.

His fellows all looked at him dumbly. "The wrong side's the wrong side, it can t make sense," Chase said.

"It could mess with his brain, it wouldn t cause fever," Cameron said. She glanced over at Jack the Killer. "He's been sleeping a lot lately."

"You worried? I marked a change of meds on his chart." He hadn't, and he thought the Killer was probably faking sleep to stay out of awkward conversations, but it wasn't a bad idea. He expected to have to walk the three fellows to the end of his thought process, but Foreman grasped that it was a cancer symptom quicker than House had expected, and Chase got the point of an admittedly long and complex metaphor about trash cans, so House sent them off with an abrupt "Yeah. Go get lung lymph."

"How did he know that?" Jack the Killer asked. He _had_ been faking sleep.

"I wouldn't have hired him if he wasn t smart," House waved it off. Foreman was good at pulling symptoms together, but Chase was probably smarter than Foreman - just lazier.

"Right," the Killer said. "'Cause you've got nothing but respect for him. Maybe he knew the answer because the question wasn't nearly as tricky as you thought. Maybe he's not getting smarter. You're getting dumber."

House was faking sleep. The Killer was still talking. "You pretend to buck the system, pretend to be a rebel, claim to hate rules. But all you do is substitute your own rules. That's a nice, simple rule - tell the blunt, honest truth in the starkest, darkest way. And what will be, will be. What will be, should be. And everyone else is a coward. But you re wrong. Someone cowardly should not call someone an idiot. People aren't tactful or polite just because it s nice. They do it because they ve got an ounce of humility. Because they know that they will make mistakes, and they know that their actions have consequences, and they know that those consequences are their fault. Why do you want so badly not to be human, House?"

House lay still. He was legally medical equipment - not human. Medical equipment didn't care it wasn't human. No one shackled the MRI machine to the whipping post and made it scream.

He heard two people enter, and didn't move.

"Oh, he's awake," the Killer said.

"House, we need to talk to you," Cameron said.

House sat up. He made his voice level. "How the hell did you know I was awake?"

"Your nostrils flare when you sleep," the Killer said.

"No they do not," House retorted.

"Fine, I'm lying," the Killer shrugged, but his speculative gaze on House did not change. He smirked.

"Test was negative," House told Cameron and Foreman.

"You knew?" Cameron was startled.

"Force of habit," House said. But he had known.

"Showed no cancer," Foreman reported, "no reason why he's got a fever of 103 and no reason why his tongue won't fit in his mouth."

"He's post-op," Cameron said. "Chase is getting him up and around."

In the PT room, the three fellows stood watching House use the exercise bike.

"Surgeons found no evidence of a burst artery," Chase said. He was still blood-spattered. Fat-Lip One-Eye was now One-Ball.

"The blood had to come from somewhere," House said. "You took a shower in it."

"Trauma?" Chase suggested.

"You think someone snuck in here just to kick him in the jewels and poke out his eye and swell up his tongue?" House didn't think it for a minute. Fat-Lips was free. "What about blood from the kidneys?"

All three of them stared at him. After a moment, Cameron said "Kidneys drain into the bladder which drains into the ureter, there s no way it would mess with the scrotum."

House looked directly ahead. What Cameron had said was what he would have said to a fellow who came out with something that was as stupid as that about basic human anatomy. But he had been the one to say it. He could flannel it over with verbiage about how as the case didn't make any kind of sense whatsoever they should question even the basics. And they'd accept it from him. But it wasn't true. He'd just grabbed it out of the air, and it made no sense at all.

"Maybe he s not human," Chase suggested.

"An anatomical defect would seem more likely," House said. "But let's not rule that one out."

"Even more likely, he is human, his anatomy is where it's supposed to be, but he has testicular cancer," Foreman said.

House tuned out the boring conversation that followed.

He was standing in the bathroom with Wilson.

"You may have been lucky. You don't catch testicular cancer early, it kills. Probably eroded some vessel - "

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Question is why _I_ didn't think of it," House said. He was staying out of arms-reach of Wilson in case Wilson decided gut-pain was as attractive to him as leg-pain.

"Eyes popping out is a rater odd presentation," Wilson said.

That was true. "Sac blowing up, on the other hand..."

"If you could think of everything yourself you wouldn't need a team to annoy."

That was more startling than House was about to tell Wilson. That was something Stacy had said, more than once. He'd only had one fellow at a time, usually, back then. Stacy hadn't said team.

Anyway, the real problem was "I screwed up some basic anatomy and I'm misconnecting a testicular explosion with a testicular problem. Think there's any way I would have done that before Cuddy messed with my brain?"

"She was trying to help you and it worked," Wilson said.

"Yeah, I can run like the wind, but I can't think. Seeing as how I'm too old to be sold as an athlete, she screwed me over, big time." They were standing in the hall outside the bathroom.

"You don't want a healthy leg," Wilson said.

"Oh, here we go." House looked away.

"If you've got a good life, you're healthy, you've got no reason to bitch, no reason to hate life."

_Except for the collar round my neck and your groping me and getting whipped whenever I step out of line and security manhandling me and being legally medical equipment._

_Except I don't have a collar round my neck, and you haven't groped me since I was shot and I can't get whipped at least until the bullet-wounds heal and I haven't seen a single security guard since I woke up and if the Killer's right, I _want_ to be medical equipment._

House met Wilson's eyes. "Well, here's the flaw in your argument: if I enjoy hating life, I don't hate life, I enjoy it."

"I didn't say it was rational," Wilson said. He stopped walking. House stopped too. "HIV testing is ninety-nine percent accurate, which means there are some people who test positive, who live with their own impending doom for months or years before finding out everything's okay. Weirdly, most of them don t react with happiness, or even anger. They get depressed, not because they wanted to die, but because they've defined themselves by their disease. Suddenly, what made them 'them' isn t real."

"I don't define myself by my leg," House said. He was almost amused, Wilson was so far off base.

"No," Wilson said. "You have taken it one step further. The only way you could come to terms with your disability was to find some way to make it mean nothing. So you had to redefine everything. You have dismissed anything physical, anything not coldly, calculatingly intellectual."

"Why are you protecting her?" House asked.

"Because she's done nothing wrong," Wilson said promptly.

She'd done nothing illegal. House was hospital property. Doctor Cuddy was the hospital's chief administrator. She could order whatever medical experiments she liked on him. But Wilson had taken weeks, _months_ to make up his mind he was going to put a tag on House. How had Wilson managed to conclude that it was OK to experiment on House in only a few hours? Especially an experiment that, if successful, permanently removed Wilson's main focus of sexual interest in House?

"You're completely comfortable with what she did to me?"

"Yeah, I am," Wilson said casually. "Yeah."

"You agonize over moral choices. You aren't completely comfortable with anything until you ve taken days or weeks to get your head around every possible side. I've known what she did for six hours. How come you're acting like you've known for days?"

House was in Doctor Cuddy's office. Wilson was there too. House was shouting. "What do I have?"

"You're not sick - " Doctor Cuddy told him. She could summon security but she couldn't whip him.

"_What do I have?_" House shouted over her.

"You need to calm down - "

"I have my brain. That s it!" Everything else had been taken away from him, _everything_, and now Doctor Cuddy had taken the last of it.

"We were trying to help you!" Wilson snapped.

"Yeah, nobody tries to screw up, they just do!" House wasn't going to calm down till Doctor Cuddy called security and ordered him sedated.

"You were out of control," Doctor Cuddy snapped, with a glare at Wilson. "You were using whippings as a gating pain for your leg!"

"_I can make people better!_" House looked from one face to another. It was too late. They didn't care. "And you decide to trade that for jogging shoes!"

"If you re suffering from side effects then we can look at that and - " Wilson came closer to him. House could smell him, Old Spice and Irish Spring. Wilson smelled of fancy soap and aftershave. He was very clean, always, even his cock tasted clean, he soaped his pubic hair, House had spent hours licking the sharp tang of Irish Spring off his balls, smelled the Old Spice on his face and neck when Wilson decided to nuzzle at House's mouth and stick his tongue between House's lips, smelled both and sweat and arousal when Wilson put him belly-down and pressed against his buttocks and got inside him and made him -

"You value the physical so much, let me put this in terms you understand!" House's hand swung out, clenched, striking against Wilson's face.

Wilson staggered back, recovered his balance, and sounded angry for the first time. "You're unbelievable. Even when you're out of your mind with anger and fear, you still couch it in logical terms. Are you hallucinating?"

"_Yeah_, I'm hallucinating!" House yelled.

"No," Wilson said. "I mean right now." His voice changed. "Are you hallucinating?"

House was lying in the ICU. Jack the Killer had just asked him. He wasn't in Doctor Cuddy's office. He probably never had been. "How did you know I was - "

"You were yelling at me," the Killer said. "You were calling me Wilson."

"No," House said. He couldn't have mistaken Jack the Killer for Wilson. The two didn't smell anything alike.

"You're losing it, House," the Killer said.

"I never call Wilson by his name," House said.

"Oh, yeah, right. The hallucinator is going to tell the hallucinatee what happened."

House had hallucinated Wilson. Wilson probably hadn't come near him since Doctor Cuddy did her little science experiment. He hadn't hallucinated Jack the Killer. He pointed that out to him.

The Killer smirked. "You think maybe you're focusing on the wrong thing here?"

"Cuddy's office was the hallucinatee, the bathroom was the hallucinatee."

"Ah," Jack the Killer said. "Bathroom. It figures."

"What figures?"

"You wet your bed."

There was a warm seepage around his groin. "Damn it," House said. His fellows walked in. None of them seemed to notice the urine, either by sight or smell.

"Test was negative," Cameron said.

"No," House told her.

Foreman said "Efp and beta HGG say no testicular cancer."

"So, let's recap," House said, wondering when one or all of his team were going to notice the fresh piss. If he rang for a nurse, would he get clean sheets or get his penis catherized? Happened all the time in the slave ward. They didn't bother with urinals, and the beds could be washed down. "We've just ruled out everything, which doesn t make sense, and the answer has to be something that does make sense. Do a cystoscopy, make sure he s human." It was a vaguely long shot. There might be a genetic oddity that would give House another idea.

They were walking down a flight of stairs, House and three fellows. At least he'd been cleaned up where he wet himself.

Chase said "Test was negative."

"For him being human?" House wanted detail.

"Everything was right where it was supposed to be," Chase said. "All the tubes go where they re supposed to go."

House looked back up the flight of stairs they had just walked down.

Foreman said, "Most likely scenario is some kind of bacterial prostatitis."

House walked up the stairs, climbing them easily and without pain. He hummed to himself, thinking. "Find out if his father hunched?" He walked down the stairs again. "His father have trouble peeing?" His fellows stood and watched him. Only slaves used these stairs regularly, and they'd keep away with a little cluster of three free doctors and crazy slave Greg blocking a flight. He could walk easily, up or down, without his cane. "His father have sex with his own mother? The answer to any of these questions, if yes, assume you re right. If the answer's no, assume you're right, but biopsy some prostate lymphs just to make sure."

"But then we d have to cut through his stomach," Cameron bleated, "and since he s clearly got a bleeding problem, this kind of surgery might - "

"He doesn t _clearly_ have anything," Foreman pontificated.

Chase said nothing, watching House.

"How did I get here?" House asked.

"What are you talking about?" Chase spoke at last.

"I was in the ICU, and then I was coming down these stairs with you guys. What happened in between? I don't remember how I got here."

Cuddy was on her feet behind her desk, looking at House as intently as Chase. "I'm taking myself off my case," House told her.

"The Diagnostics patient's in critical care, he's had a fever unabated for two - "

"I think I'm losing my mind," House told her bluntly. "I'm having blackouts."

"You said you weren t having any - " Cuddy said.

"I lied."

"If you are doing this to scare me, you made your point. Next time you get shot, I promise to only treat the bullet wounds." Cuddy sounded exasperated, but not panicky, but she was still on her feet, as if poised for action.

"I'm off the case," House told her. It was the one level of autononomy that Doctor Cuddy had consistently always let him have: he could pick and choose his cases. "Why did you jump up when I came in?" he asked.

"I thought you were going to attack me again," Doctor Cuddy said.

"Again?" House remembered shouting, remembered punching Wilson - he hadn't seen Wilson since - but hadn't that all been a hallucination? He hadn't seen Wilson since he got shot. He'd hallucinated a Wilson who didn't handle him, didn't grope him, didn't enjoy his pain - who spoke to him as if he were a human being and not medical equipment -

"Yeah," Doctor Cuddy interrupted, "you were in my face. You were - "

"No, I wasn't," House said. He had hallucinated that.

"You came in here with Wilson and - "

"That was a hallucination - " House said.

"No, you - " Cuddy interrupted him again.

" - which means _this_ is a hallucination," House said. Doctor Cuddy would have called for security the moment House walked in the door.

He was in bed in the ICU. Jack the Killer was staring at him and didn't speak.

He was in the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant. Why would he have come here? Why would security have let him walk out of the hospital?

"How can I tell what's real and what's not?" House asked Jack the Killer, who had followed him to the parking lot. "Everything looks the same, sounds the same, tastes the same."

"Seems like I'd be the last person you d want to ask," the Killer said.

"Why not? You're obviously not here. I'm obviously not here, which means this is a creation of my mind, which means I'm really just asking my mind."

The Killer smirked. "If you're talking to yourself, there's a lot of unnecessary explanation."

"Hey, I'm trying to work this out. That requires give and take, even in my own mind." He needed a whiteboard. Why couldn't he hallucinate a marker pen and a whiteboard?

"All right, what was the question?" the Killer asked.

"How can I tell what's real?" House asked himself.

"Does it matter?"

House considered that response. "That doesn't sound like something I'd ask."

"All right, your concern is that if you act in the real world based on information that s not real, the results are impossible to foresee."

"With you so far."

"But information is incapable of harm in and of itself. Ideas are neither good nor bad, but merely as useful as what we do with it. Only actions can cause harm."

"That sounds like me," House said. He wondered if Jack the Killer had ever been in the ICU, or ever spoken to him. Perhaps every conversation he'd had with the Killer had been a hallucination.

"So you do nothing, you refrain from taking any actions. Continue to throw out your ideas as you always would, but if they're based on faulty assumptions your team will point that out. They won't do anything that could hurt him."

"So I trust my team." He did. And as he knew that, the Mexican restaurant's parking lot became the PT room. He was still doing his PT. Perhaps he had been doing PT all along. Wilson could have been a hallucination there too.

Chase, Cameron, and Foreman were there. They were about to tell him that they had found no structural abnormalities, no blood in the prostate: the test was negative.

They did.

"Something doesn't make sense," House said. "What does that mean?" It's not rhetorical. I need your input on everything I ask, no matter how obvious it might seem."

"It means you're wrong," Foreman said.

"It means one of your assumptions is wrong, because if something doesn't make sense it can't be real. So what are our assumptions?"

"We don't have any," Foreman said obviously, "we're just guessing and testing."

"We assume the tests are right," Cameron said.

"We've already redone them, twice," Chase said.

"Let's go more basic," House instructed them. They'd been doing this over and over for days - guessing and testing and the tests showed nothing and Fat-Mouth became One-Eye and One-Ball.

"What's more basic than the test results?" Foreman asked.

"Tests themselves." There was a piece of medical equipment that PPTH owned that was as expensive as House. Like House, like the MRI machine, they could use it to look at the patient - look_ inside_ the patient - and see what he had wrong with him. "What does a biopsy consist of?"

"You take a sample," Chase said.

"Define sample."

"It's a small, representative piece of whatever you think is the problem."

"You go down the shore, you fill a cup with water. It's got no fish in it. Does that mean no fish in the ocean?"

Cameron said, sounding puzzled, "We can do another biopsy?"

There was some more talk, but the discussion was essentially over. They were in Fat-Mouth's ward.

"You want to let a robot operate on me?" Fat-Mouth sounded appalled, as far as you could tell past the grotesquerie of his tongue. House could not remember if this was Harpo Marx that he was thinking of. He would never see a Marx Brothers movie again.

"The technology is amazing," Cameron said. "It magnifies everything ten times, it s ten times the accuracy."

"No way," Fat-Mouth said fat-headedly, "I want a person!"

"A person will be controlling - " Cameron started to say, sweetly.

"People suck," House interrupted. Fat-Mouth looked at him. One of his eyes was patched: the other was bloodshot. It was hard to tell what he was seeing. "People have turned you from a guy with a swollen tongue into a guy with one eye, one ball and a stapled-on face. If you want someone to hold you while you cry yourself to sleep at night, choose warm and soft. If you want someone to write you a poem, pick the sensitive loner. If all you care about is that something s done right, pick the guy with the metal head."

"No way," Fat-Mouth said thickly.

"_No way_ no way." House wanted to make Fat-Mouth look at the device. If it was an insane idea, his team would stop him, right? "You've got to see this thing in action before you say 'no way.' Come on." He was helping Fat-Mouth sit up.

"Greg, what are you doing?" Cameron asked.

"Nothing," House said. Taking him to see the other medical equipment. "I'm not doing anything. Just throwing out ideas. I think you should put him in a wheelchair and take him down to the OR, but I may be out of my mind."

They were in the OR. House was playing with the robot surgeon: Cameron was lying down helpless on the operating table. He showed Fat-Mouth how he could stroke Cameron's face, blow into her belly-button, cut off a single button on her blouse, peel the blouse away to reveal her bra.

"If I do something that doesn t make sense, even to you, stop me," he told Fat-Mouth, who looked at him with tired bewilderment: two days ago - three? - his tongue had started to swell in his mouth, and now every day went by and he hurt worse in more places. They were doing things to him and he hurt.

"Greg," Cameron said, a mild rebuke.

"Does that hurt?" House asked. Cameron shook her head. "Seen enough?" he asked Fat-Mouth.

Fat-Mouth looked at him with bewildered eyes like Harpo Marx if he'd been beaten up by audiences who should have laughed at him. "No."

"That wasn't a question," House said. "You either do this, or you die."

He was in the ICU again.

Jack the Killer said, "You've wasted your life."

He had gone into debt and ignored the demands from credit-card companies and the debt collection letters and the final promises of distraint from the Slaves Administration. He had known his father could help, if he asked, might help, but he'd turned away from that as instinctively as he would have dropped hot metal. Seventeen years ago they had locked a collar round his neck and he had stopped being a free person and become a slave, an object to be used, medical equipment, an experimental animal.

"Yeah," House said. He lifted his chin, even though the Killer was too far away to hit him. "If only I'd dedicated my life to finding someone worthy to shoot."

"If I'd killed you, would it have mattered?"

_No._ "Not to me," House said.

"You don't care whether you live or die?" the Killer asked.

"I care because I live," House said. "I can't care if I'm dead." He was cuffed to the bed but only by his wrist. He could move the bed towards the wall and use the pen to write on the wall. If he was still cuffed to the bed then whenever he thought he was somewhere else than this ward, that must be a hallucination.

"I don t want to hear semantics," the Killer said.

House paused a moment, said, "You anti-semantic bastard," and tugged his bed till he could reach the board and write on it with the white marker he had found.

"Would anybody care that the world lost that wit?" Jack the Killer asked rhetorically.

"Working, here," House said. He had been experiencing hallucinations and blackouts since he woke up. He was no longer sure what he had told his fellows to do to Fat-Mouth and what he only thought he had told them to do. He knew he hadn't spoken to Doctor Cuddy or to Wilson. And if he was cuffed to his bed then every time he thought he had gone to PT had been a hallucination too.

""That's all right, you don t have to say anything," the Killer said. "Just let me soak into your subconscious. You think that the only truth that matters is the truth that can be measured. Good intentions don t count, what s in your heart doesn t count, caring doesn t count, that a man s life can t be measured by how many tears are shed when he dies. It s because you can t measure them. It s because you don t want to measure them. Doesn t mean it s not real."

"That does not makes sense," House said.

"And even if I m wrong, you're still miserable. Did you really think that your life's purpose was to sacrifice yourself and get nothing in return? No."

House was no longer in the ICU. He was sitting in the passenger seat of a car. The woman in the driver's seat was the ghost of the hallucination he had spoken to before he tore his stitches. She was still lovely. The car was in a garage and the garage was full of choking fumes, so thick House could see them. There was nothing else to breathe. He was going to die. The woman was already dead.

He could still hear the Killer. "You believe there is no purpose to anything. Even the lives you save you dismiss. You turn the one decent thing in your life and you taint it, strip it of all meaning. You're miserable for nothing. I don't know why you'd want to live."

"I'm sorry," House said. "I know what's wrong." He was hallucinating now. He was hallucinating whenever he spoke to his team. He was hallucinating Jack. He had been shot and he was lost in hallucination and he had to wake up, he had to speak to Cuddy. As in a lucid dream. he got out of the car and turned a corner and was walking into the OR: his team were using the robot surgeon to operate on Fat-Mouth.

"Greg, get out of here! You're not sterile!"

"He'll be fine."

"Great. What s he got?

The floor beneath House felt real. The smell of blood felt real. The tug of pain in his abdomen and neck felt real. Chase, Foreman, and Cameron all sounded, looked, smelled just as real as Wilson and Cuddy had. "How come you guys have never tried to yank me off this case? I'm having hallucinations, blackouts."

"But you're always insane, and you're always right," Foreman said.

"I'm almost always eventually right," House said. "You have no way of knowing when 'eventually' is. Every time I've had an epiphany on this one you guys were right on board. No challenges, nothing to explain. No offense, but either you guys are getting smarter or I m getting dumber."

"We've worked with you long enough to know - " Chase started.

"I know the test results even before you enter the room. We have identical knowledge. How is that possible?"

"You're wrong," Cameron said bluntly.

"Something doesn t make sense." Nothing about this case had made sense all day. Nothing about this day had made sense. "One of your assumptions has to be wrong, because if something doesn't make sense then it can t be real." He was trying to work out what part of his day had been real, and he had kept assuming that he wouldn't hallucinate discussing a case with his three fellows. "But what if the faulty assumption is that it's real?""

"House, you're losing it," Foreman said.

House nearly laughed. "I've lost it." He was cuffed to the bed in the ICU. He was in a car breathing choking smoke. He was doing PT and it didn't hurt. Wilson was being nice to him. He started to move his hand towards the controls of the other medical equipment. Chase grabbed it. "Why did you stop me?"

"Because I think you're going to kill him," Chase said.

"You don't think that. You know it, because you're in my head." Chase. Foreman. Cameron. They weren't real. He wasn't here. Fat-mouth wasn't here. The woman wasn't dying in the car. Wilson didn't like him. Jack the Killer wasn't chained to the next bed. Each segment of reality made coherent sense, none of it made sense together. Thought and words came together. He never had time to speak when he understood the crux of the case, but he seemed to have all the time in the world to say it now. "As long as the delusion makes sense my mind lets it go on. To make it not make sense I have to push it past the point where it can trick my mind."

"Hey, hey! If this is a nightmare, you're going to wake up. It's real, you're killing a man!"

Killed him already. Seventeen years ago. It's not a nightmare.

"It's also possible I may already be dead," House said into the hallucination, "but I don't believe in the afterlife."

"Greg, go back to your room. If this is a hallucination, it's a good one: you re pain free, you can walk - "

"You never call me Greg," House noted. "This is not real, therefore it's meaningless. I want meaning." He used the other medical equipment to stab Fat-Mouth in the bellybutton, and cut a deep incision all the way up his abdomen. Red wet pulsing offal bulged through the slit. Fat-Mouth flatlined. The OR remained. Chase, Foreman, and Cameron were standing still with identical looks of horror on their faces. House walked towards the dead body on the table. The dead man's hand opened, and a bullet fell on the floor with a clatter. House picked it up. It was hot. He clutched it. "Goodbye."

**_tba_**

_Yes. I lied. Everybody lies. There is one more episode. Soon!_


	24. The Starkest, Darkest Way

_This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". The first season is "CollarRedux": and there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee... I lied last time. Everybody lies._ This _is the end of the second season. Plus I guess I should warn you ahead of time that the timeflow of this episode is really weird. Sorry, it just worked out that way._

**2.24 The starkest, darkest way**

_May 25, 4.08pm_

Wilson studied Greg. He was sleeping. For two days he had been sunk deep into a ketamine-induced dissociative coma; but he had drifted quietly from coma to normal sleep, and soon, most likely, he would wake.

Wilson's right hand played with the tag in his pocket. It had been returned to him after the collar had to be removed: Gillick couldn't operate on the neck injury around a heavy metal collar. He brushed Greg's face with the fingerips of his left hand, feathering the stubble.

Greg sighed and turned his head to one side. His eyes opened. Wilson liked the confused, wide-eyed stare.

"Hello," Wilson said. He smiled.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 23, 12.37pm_

Intruder entered Diagnostics office and shot the Diagnostics slave twice. Once in the abdomen, once in the neck. Prompt emergency treatment by three doctors present preserved the slave's life. The intruder was prevented from leaving the hospital premises by security staff and handed over to police custody. The intruder has been charged with vandalism and a civil suit is in train against him to recoup the costs of restoring the Diagnostics slave to a working state.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 23, about 6.40pm_

Wilson started with the easiest. John Henry Giles had the same hoarse, breathless voice Wilson remembered, but he didn't remember Wilson at all. He did remember Greg though. He listened to Wilson say it all. "Man, you suck at pitching," he said finally. "I can check all this with that hospital?"

"Yes," Wilson said.

"Okay," Giles said.

Wilson stared at the phone. "...Yes?" he said.

"Yes," Giles said, impatiently, his voice getting rougher. "Get off the phone, Doc, I got a lot of calls to make."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 23, about 7.45pm_

At first Dan didn't realize the importance of the phone call: his father hardly said anything, just nods and grunts. But he picked up a magazine and started tapping against the wall as he spoke. When he said "Thank you, Doctor Wilson," and turned, his face was screwed up in a frown. "Guys," he said, looking at Dan, looking at Mom, "we have to decide something."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 23, about 8.45pm_

"Fuck me," Brandon Merrell said, jaw dropping. "You're going to sell the _car_?"

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 23, about 9.45pm_

"Of course I remember you, Doctor Wilson," Adler said. "What can I do for you?"

It wasn't late, but she had a new man in bed. She wanted to get back to him. The floor was cold on her bare feet.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 24, after two in the morning_

Wilson closed his eyes. He had been talking on the phone too much today: he had to quit, it was too late even on the West Coast, his voice was scratchy. The bed felt too big and empty. He wanted this to work. He wanted Greg here, with him, pliant and cooperative.

Those two red lines across Greg's ass. Brenda Previn had been quite open about it. Yes, she sent him down to the head overseer for a caning when Greg's behavior warranted it.

And it worked. Prompt discipline, firmly applied. When Greg was back here, with him, every evening - every time Greg needed to be disciplined for what he'd done during the day - he'd bend bare-ass over the arm of the couch and Wilson would cane him. Or even more intimate, gentler kind of discipline. Wilson's hand moved on his erection, thinking about that. A hand spanking wouldn't even leave a mark, just leave Greg's bottom stinging. Greg was taller than Wilson, but if he was cooperating with his necessary discipline, he'd be easy to manage. Bend him over Wilson's knees with his head down and whack his bare ass.

_Oh yes. Yes._ Wilson went to sleep on that.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 24, between 8 and 9 in the morning_

"Have you heard?" - "Is it true?" - "Everyone says so." - "Haven't you seen it?" - "What, in the clinic? Battleax Brenda let them put it up in the _clinic_?" - "It's Doctor Wilson, everyone says." - "Isn't he the one who - ?" - "Yeah. Weird." - "In the _clinic_?" - "Right in front of the door. Box for donations." - "Seriously?" - "Yeah." - "Well, let's do a whipround." - "Seriously? For _that_ fucking slave?" - "He's forgotten more medicine that you'll _ever_ know." - "That's not saying much. You don't know _anything_." - "Seriously, guys, what about it? Five bucks each, that's not so much." - "I'll kick in ten."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 24, after Terce_

"Sisters," the Reverend Mother said to the convent in council, "we have been asked to make a charitable donation of a rather odd form..."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 24, about 11.15_

Doctor Lim hardly registered what it was on his way in to do his two hours clinic duty. He saw it on his way back to Maternity, and stood looking at it, frowning, for a while before, with a shrug of disgust, he realized he had to get back to work.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 23, about 3pm_

"The man is being charged with _vandalism_!"

"What else can we charge him with?" Cuddy said. She looked tired. "He walked into the hospital and he fired a gun at an expensive piece of hospital equipment. We can't do any more than claim damages. According to the surgeon, Greg is likely to make a full recovery."

"And if he'd died?"

"We're insured," Cuddy said.

"Money doesn't cover it!"

"I know," Cuddy said.

"How long is he going to live?"

"He should recover."

"This time!" Wilson found he was shouting. "_This_ time," he said, more quietly.

Cuddy's eyes fell. "We probably have three more years," she acknowledged. "Why do you think I got the hospital to fund one more Diagnostics fellow? We need all we can get from him."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 24, about 12.30_

Samantha Campbell was getting divorced, and she told her friends she'd never expected that to make her so happy. She hadn't expected to see a full-size pic of the doctor who'd been the one to break it to her that her husband didn't want to have sex with her. Or the message underneath.

But after she'd got over being surprised, she dropped in a twenty buck note and hoped that would help.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 24, about 3pm_

Luke hadn't seen his mom in over a year. He'd got used to the idea that he never would again. He'd even ventured back to the free clinic at PPTH, but he stayed away from the tall doctor with the blue eyes and a secret even more embarrassing than his. He thought now that Mom had called social services in, not the doc, but it didn't matter now. He dropped five dollars into the box. He could spare that much.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 24, about 4.30_

Henry heard about the thing from someone who used the free clinic to get condoms. The guy was jeering, but Henry was thoughtful for the rest of the day. Jimmy was still young enough that he could ride free on the bus. Henry offered to take care of him that afternoon.

"You won't remember," Henry said. It had been over a year ago, when Jimmy still couldn't talk right. "But he helped you."

Dad and Mom would be pissed that Henry had lost his whole month's allowance, but they didn't have to know where. Jimmy was an okay little kid.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 23, about 5pm_

Greg's medical records were a long read, but Wilson felt like his life had gone on hold. He kept remembering that huge noise, through the wall, the _bam_ of a gunshot that had made him lift his head in surprise and the thud of someone falling and the second _bam_ and the time between gunshots could only have been a few seconds, less, but time for Wilson to tell himself a hundred things that first loud sound could have been, a hundred reasons why someone next door would have fallen.

Greg had been shot in the torso and the neck. Thanks to the quick reactions of Cameron, Chase, and Foreman, he had got alive to surgery - with considerable blood loss but still conscious enough to think of ketamine.

Instead of a drugged sleep, ketamine put the patient in a dissassociative coma. In theory, Greg could wake up and his brain would have forgotten the pain routes from his leg. Greg had undergone a lot of forced physiotherapy in the years since the infarction, had a fair amount of muscle regrowth, but his pain levels remained cripplingly high.

Wilson turned back to the first volume. When the hospital had bought him, over seventeen years ago, Greg had been at the peak of health and fitness. There were two or three nasty incidents in the first month or so the hospital had owned him - that was when Greg had broken his back tooth and had to have it extracted - but overall, he was strong, healthy, and fit.

Now he wasn't. Greg's health had been deteriorating over seventeen years - even before the infarction.

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 25, about 8.30am_

"I guess we have to," Keith's dad said.

"He saved my life," Keith reminded his dad. And stopped a liver transplant, which Keith hadn't known about till well after.

"Yeah." Keith's dad had a complicated expression on his face. "If I'd known that was a _slave_ saying that kind of crap to me - "

"What did he say?" Keith asked curiously.

His dad shrugged. "Never mind. He saved your life and your liver. What do you want to give up for this?"

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 25, about 9.30am_

Georgia Adams was determined. She waited for her son to come to the end of his little speech about how ridiculous it was and she had some kind of obsession with this doctor, and then she told the lawyer "My son is very careful, but it's still my money." She gave him a big smile. "This doctor saved my life. I think I have a right to be grateful."

"Any other doctor would have treated you for - for - " It still embarrassed Mark horribly to say the word "syphilis" in connection with his mother, and Georgia took pity on him.

"Dear, I didn't tell you this then, but I took a cab back to the hospital to tell the doctor that I didn't want to be cured. I thought all of the good feelings would go away if I was cured. The doctor made me see I was wrong. He was very kind and nice, and helpful, and I want to give as much as I can." She gave the lawyer another big smile. "You have power of attorney, and my son will explain how much I can spare from my current account, won't you, dear?"

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 25, about 10.30am_

"How much do you want to raise?" The woman's voice was calmly professional. Wilson told her. "How much of that do you have pledged? How much time do you have left?"

Wilson hesitated. But there was no reason not to tell her.

"This is not quite as difficult as you'd think," the woman told him. "I'm no longer CEO of Sonyo Cosmetics, if you were expecting a donation from me, I can't give enough to make a real difference. But I can talk to people who can. Let's hear your pitch, and I'll work on it."

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 25, 3.30pm_

"Hey," a tired, scratchy voice said. "Is that Dylan Crandall? This is John Henry Giles."

"Sure," Crandall said. "I mean - yeah, that's me. What - are you - " He never did ghostwriting, never never, but - "What can I do for you?"

"I was paralysed," John Henry said. "The doctors figured out they knew what I had and it was incurable, and I signed a DNR, because if I couldn't play and I couldn't walk it didn't seem like there was anything left, but then this doc looked at my case and he cured me. I can walk again. I just found out the other day I have a way to repay him, and I'd appreciate it if you could help me, here's how - "

Crandall stood listening, clutching the receiver, tears springing acid in his eyes. "Sure," he said finally. "Sure, I'd be honored. Where do I - ?"

_*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*_

_May 23, about 6.30pm_

"Seventeen years," Wilson said. "I know what the hospital paid for him. I know what owning him has done for the hospital financially. Legally, you could have freed him years ago. Why not?"

Cuddy gave Wilson a very skeptical look. Wilson shook his head. "I know. The Diagnostics department makes PPTH internationally known: the free clinic makes it locally known: it's a winning combination for donors and prestige. For the next three years. I've looked at Greg's medical records. He isn't going to live much longer. But what if you had a way to keep him for the hospital's use, for at least seven more years?"

"What have you got in mind?"

Wilson told her.

"No," Cuddy said incredulously.

"Yes," Wilson said. He kept thinking of the look on Lady's face. Not just gratitude. _Devotion._ He wanted to see that look on Greg's face. "You can have a manumission document drawn up which requires Greg to work here at whatever wage you set, and live wherever you direct, for the next seven years." He smiled at Cuddy, barely containing his excitement. "That should extend his working life. Isn't that worthwhile?"

Cuddy considered. "When I bought Greg, I had his value depreciated over twenty years. I was advised that was likely to be his working lifetime. Yes, he's brought in more than his value, but..." She looked directly at Wilson. "You've always been good at fundraising. If you can raise the value of the remainder of Greg's depreciation, in donations and pledges, before Greg wakes up, then the hospital will free him."

Wilson nodded.

"You've got two days," Cuddy warned.

"I can do it," Wilson said confidently. He smiled.

**end**

_For what it's worth, this plot twist at the end of second season was in my mind from before I finished first season. I thought for sure that would be how CollarRedux finished - wasn't sure anyone would want to read it any more if Greg wasn't a slave. But then I started getting ideas for how third season CollarRedux would develop... and even fourth season! So I sure hope you guys want to read it... if you do, let me know!_


End file.
